MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving 
Over Goldengrove unleaving? 
Leáves, líke the things of man, you 
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? 
Áh! ás 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 wíll weep and know why. 
Now no matter, child, the name: 
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same. 
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed 
What heart heard of, ghost guessed: 
It ís the blight man was born for, 
It is Margaret you mourn for.