Spring Fall to a young child

Margaret, are you

Over Goldengrove unleaving?

Leaves, like the things of man,

With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

Ah! as the heart grows

It will come to such sights

By and by, nor spare a

Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;

And yet you wíll weep and know why.

Now no matter, child, the name:

Sorrow's springs are the same.

Nor mouth had, no nor mind,

What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:

It is the blight man was born for,

It is Margaret you mourn for.