To a young child
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 will weep know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
by : Hopkins - 1880