Spring & Fall
       To a young child

Oh my Meg, it's you who grieves
For the gold wood grove's lost leaves?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows more old
It will come to such sights more cold
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wan wood's dead leaves lie;
And yet you will weep and and know why.
Now it's not much, child, the name:
Sad thoughts' springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, thought passed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is my Meg you mourn for.

                                -- Dad Small Hops