By Gerard Manley Hopkins
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.
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Monday was another gorgeous day, though I spent the morning folding laundry and finishing other chores left over from traveling last week. After lunch I took a walk in the neighborhood, did some computer stuff, and made a few phone calls (our neighborhood is putting together a mahjong group but the woman running it never messaged me back).
When Paul got home, we took a long walk with our neighbors, ate leftovers for dinner -- my California Tortilla bowl survived the trip home in a cooler bag -- and watched the end of the White Sox win and all of the Tampa Bay clobbering the Yankees game! Now we're watching Coven Academy, which is moderately fun. Waterfowl at Washingtonian last week:
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