Because my middle name is Margaret, I have always felt the pull of Hopkins’ poem as the leaves begin to turn, as we talk about mulching, and the first soup of the early fall bubbles in the kitchen. Life is passing, the days racing by us, calendar pages hurry us along. As I grow older, I realize that it is, indeed, Myself I mourn for, have always mourned for. The cool air, while refreshing, has a chill that gets in the bones and reminds me to hurry, hurry, life is ticking and rushing and will never stop for me. Until it does indeed stop for me.
Spring and Fall
To a young child
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as 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 will weep know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow’s springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.