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THE AUTUMN LEAF.
  
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111

THE AUTUMN LEAF.

Pauvre feuille dessechée! où vas-tu?
—Arnault.

Poor autumn leaf! down floating
Upon the blustering gale;
Torn from thy bough,
Where goest now,
Wither'd, and shrunk, and pale?
“I go, thou sad inquirer,
As list the winds to blow,
Sear, sapless, lost,
And tempest-tost,
I go where all things go.

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“The rude winds bear me onward
As suiteth them, not me,
O'er dale, o'er hill,
Through good, through ill,
As Destiny bears thee.
“What though for me one summer,
And threescore for thy breath—
I live my span,
Thou thine, poor man!
And then adown to death!
“And thus we go together
For lofty as thy lot
And lowly mine,
My fate is thine,
To die, and be forgot!”