'Spring and Fall'

Lovely!

Wonderful jjorge and true.

Hi Jes! Hi Joanne!

So you found this Hopkins poem eh? Fascinating!

Until you posted, it had sat quietly in the A2k archives gathering dust
with zero responses since I first posted it three months ago.
It's so achingly lovely that I was surprised to see no responses. Go figure.

When one starts a little thread and no one comments its sort of like talking on the phone and belatedly discovering the line is dead...no one was listening after all...no connection.

I had hoped it would stimulate a little conversation about Hopkins and his poems. (He is rather an interesting story and his poems are wonderful)

Oh well, perhaps I'm too sensitive about it..............I know I am.
Anyway someone (you two) DID read the poem.

Connection made.

Well, I sift through the unanswered topics every few days and this one caught my eye. Lots of good stuff in unanswered - there's a link at the top of the page if you want to take a look and make some connections. :-D

Poetry.
Here am I, posting after three years. I want to know the REAL theme of this poem and if Hopkins were alive today, I would ask him because its SO controversial.

Decay, mortality and death --the blight man was born for-- since 'The Fall'.


and yet,

there are these mysterious lines:

'...Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed...'

I think he means that when we, (or Margaret) feel sorrow, even though we don't articulate it, or even comprehend it, we know in our soul (ghost) that it's ultimate source -- the fount of human sorrow-- is original sin and the loss of grace, or God-in-our-heart.

Nevermore
Paul Verlaine
　
Souvenir, souvenir, que me veux-tu? L''autome
Faisait voler la grive à travaers l''air atone,
Et le soleil dardait un rayon monotone
Sur le bois jaunissant où la bise détone.
　

Nous étions seul à seule et marchions en rêvant,
Elle et moi, les cheveux et la pensée au vent,
Soudain, tournant vers moi son regard émouvant:
“Quel fut ton plus beau jour?” fit sa voix d''or vivant,
　

Sa voix douce et sonore, au frais timbre angélique.
Un sourir discret lui donna la réplique,
Et je baisai sa main blanche, dévotement.
　

—— Ah! Les premières fleures, qu''elles sont parfumées!
Et qu''il bruit avec un murmure charmant
Le premier oui qui sort de lèvres bien-aimées!

I like you poem