The speaker recalls an earlier time when forgetting was easy—she could let whole days of fall or spring pass lightly and even skip her bedtime prayers without worry. That innocence is gone. Now she cannot forget anything: wind spluttering in a hedge, the smell of hyssop beside a hot field, the field dry as a bone, deer fleeting through woods, an old woman in a hood. These sensory details arrive with almost exhausting clarity, as if the world will not let her rest. The speaker seems both burdened and awed by what she now notices. Even her prayers have changed. They rise like spears, so sharp that God must hear them. The mood is intense, wakeful, and slightly distressed. What was once effortless forgetfulness has become an urgent, piercing awareness of both the physical world and her own need.
The Change — Summary
Once I forgot all, everything, In any day of fall or spring; And even when I went to bed. The little prayer I should have said. I cannot now forget at all Anything of spring or fall; — The splutter of wind within a hedge; Or smell of hyssop from the edge Of a hot field; the field itself Dry as a bone upon a shelf; Or deer that fleet across a wood; Or an old woman in a hood. My prayers rise up, each like a spear, So sharp that God cannot but hear.