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Sunday, November 20, 2011

Spring and Fall

. . . to a Young Child

 Margaret, are you gríeving
  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 wíll weep and know why.
  Now no matter, child, the name:
  Sorrow’s spríngs are 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.



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