IN FRENCH FIELDS.
13
THE LEAF.
Detached from thy stalk,
Leaf yellow and dry,
Where goest thou amain?
The tempest's fierce shock
Struck the oak proud and high,
And I struggled in vain.
Since then,—the sad day!
Winds changeful and rude
Transport me about,
Over mountains,—away,
And o'er valley and wood.
Hark! their whistle rings out!
I go where they lead,
I fear not, nor heed,
Nor ever complain.
The rose too must go,
And the laurel, I know,
And all things below.
Then why should I strain,
Ah me! to remain?
