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.

Guess what I spent all weekend doing! Ah, the joys of being a grown-up with your own place.