The Leaf

Far from your own little bough,

Poor little frail little leaf,

Where are you going?-The wind

Has plucked me from the beech where I was born.

It rises once more, and bears me

In the air from the wood to the fields,

And from the valley up into the hills.

I am a wanderer

For ever that is all that I can say.

I go where everything goes

I go where by nature’s law

Wanders the leaf of the rose,

Wanders the leaf of the bay

Giacomo Leopardi

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