Page:Poems, Savage, 1882.djvu/38

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NATURE

32 

         THE LEAF 

          French of A^-natdt

T7ROM off thy frail stem broke, Poor, withered leaf, and dead, Where goest thou ? It said : I know not. From the oak. My sole support, the storm Has torn my frost-browned form. Since then, by fickle wind, Zephyr or Aquilon, From forest to the plain, To vale from mountain-top, I'm hurried, driven on. My path I never mind : Where'er the breezes blow, On land or on the main, I go^ nor care to stop. I go where all things go, — Where goes the beauteous rose. Where the poet's laurel goes.

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