We have to have one of those 'talks' with our oldest son. You know, when the realities of life demand you 'make plans'... wills, powers of attorneys, and so on.
I started on the phone... we just haven't been seeing him enough to ruin a good dinner with our mortal matters. Anyway, somewhere in the changing of the subject as he tends to do, he mentioned the enormity of the state of marriage - what it means to commit to another person for life. Yes, he is a deep young man.
So along the lines of my posting poetry, I'll post this poem that ran through my mind as we were talking on the phone. This one is for Skip. Wrong season, right poem:
Spring and Fall
to a young child
MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Áh! 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.
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
