Imitation

Wandering from the parent bough,

  Little, trembling leaf,

  Whither goest thou?

  "From the beech, where I was born,

  By the north wind was I torn.

  Him I follow in his flight,

  Over mountain, over vale,

  From the forest to the plain,

  Up the hill, and down again.

  With him ever on the way:

  More than that, I cannot say.

  Where I go, must all things go,

  Gentle, simple, high and low:

  Leaves of laurel, leaves of rose;

  Whither, heaven only knows!"