Márgarét, are you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
*****
It’s just that time of year, isn’t it.
“leaving” by john curley is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.
my favourite poem, probably
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To me, that’s a strange poem for a favourite, Nell. I have limited (though some) enthusiasm for autumn, and limited (though some) enjoyment of melancholy. A good Hopkins poem but, to me, not one of his outstanding ones.
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One of my absolute favorites.
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Mine too.
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