Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, lake 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 wall weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrows springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed

What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It as the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.