Every autumnal equinox, I remind myself to revisit Margaret, the child of “Spring and Fall,” the poem in which Gerard Manley Hopkins explains why we cry at the end of movies like Titanic, Philadelphia, and The Fault in Our Stars, and many more that end with the loss of a lead character—Sure, I’ll admit it. *
In “Spring and Fall” Hopkins gives us an image of a small child crying as she sees the leaves turn color and fall, the summer’s green glory of chlorophyll turning to the gold of xanthophyll before succumbing to the crumbling brown of tannic acid. Hopkins tells Margaret she cries not for the dying leaves, but “It is Margaret you mourn for.”
We all die, and we all have some inkling from early on that the growth and death of leaves are yearly analogs of our lives. If you live in a region of deciduous trees, you know that the brilliant fall colors are harbingers of Death. After the yellows, reds (anthocyanin), and oranges (carotene) appear, “Goldengrove” will in a short time “unleave.” Whoever you are and whatever you claim to be will fall like those leaves.
In the greenness of our daily lives, we are much like one another, all of us required to busy ourselves with surviving—though some of us choose to fall prematurely from the tree of life, in my estimation an unfortunate choice. But for those who hang onto the branch, daily surviving can end in vibrancy. Sure, the fall is inevitable; yet, each can strive for a bit of brilliance, a splash of color before we turn brown and return our elemental nature to the soil from which human culture cyclically springs.
Like a fallen brown leaf, you can fertilize not just a single spring bud, but the whole tree of leaves. A good life distributes its nutrients in both known and unknown individuals. A whole generation might share that gift from the past. If you live purposefully, the spectrum of your “unleaving” can be a spectacular reminder that just as dead leaves fertilize next year’s growth, all of us can contribute to the next generation. Turn the green of your now into someone else’s bright green future. You have a single growing season. This is not your practice life.
*Gerard Manley Hopkins: “Spring and Fall”
Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves like 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.
In “Spring and Fall” Hopkins gives us an image of a small child crying as she sees the leaves turn color and fall, the summer’s green glory of chlorophyll turning to the gold of xanthophyll before succumbing to the crumbling brown of tannic acid. Hopkins tells Margaret she cries not for the dying leaves, but “It is Margaret you mourn for.”
We all die, and we all have some inkling from early on that the growth and death of leaves are yearly analogs of our lives. If you live in a region of deciduous trees, you know that the brilliant fall colors are harbingers of Death. After the yellows, reds (anthocyanin), and oranges (carotene) appear, “Goldengrove” will in a short time “unleave.” Whoever you are and whatever you claim to be will fall like those leaves.
In the greenness of our daily lives, we are much like one another, all of us required to busy ourselves with surviving—though some of us choose to fall prematurely from the tree of life, in my estimation an unfortunate choice. But for those who hang onto the branch, daily surviving can end in vibrancy. Sure, the fall is inevitable; yet, each can strive for a bit of brilliance, a splash of color before we turn brown and return our elemental nature to the soil from which human culture cyclically springs.
Like a fallen brown leaf, you can fertilize not just a single spring bud, but the whole tree of leaves. A good life distributes its nutrients in both known and unknown individuals. A whole generation might share that gift from the past. If you live purposefully, the spectrum of your “unleaving” can be a spectacular reminder that just as dead leaves fertilize next year’s growth, all of us can contribute to the next generation. Turn the green of your now into someone else’s bright green future. You have a single growing season. This is not your practice life.
*Gerard Manley Hopkins: “Spring and Fall”
Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves like 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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