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