THOU poor leaf, so sear and frail, Sport of every wanton gale, Whence and whither dost thou fly Through this bleak autumnal sky? -- On a noble oak I grew, Green and broad, and fair to view; But the monarch of the shade By the tempest low was laid. From that time, I wander o'er Wood and valley, hill and moor, Wheresoe'er the wind is blowing, Nothing caring, nothing knowing; Thither go I whither goes Glory's laurel, Beauty's rose. |