M'rgar't, 're you gr'eving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Le'ves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
'h! 's 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 w'll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
S'rrow's spr'ngs 're the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.