Margaret， are you grieving¹

    Over Goldengrove unleaving？

    Leaves， like the things of man， you

    With your fresh thoughts care for， can you？

    Ah！ as 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 will weep and know why.

    Now no matter， child， the name：

    Sorrow's springs are the same.

    Nor mouth had， no nor mind， expressed

    What heart heard of， ghost guessed：

    It is the blight² man was born for，

    It is Margaret you mourn for.