 | Beads from a Rosary |  |
22
THE LEAF.
Torn from thy stem, say, whither dost thou fly,
Poor blighted leaf?—Tell me thy destiny.
Poor blighted leaf?—Tell me thy destiny.
“I cannot tell—a storm to earth hath cast
My parent oak, sole shelter from its blast;
And now all winds, the gentle and the rude,
Do sport with me, and from my native wood
Down to the plain they bear me,—o'er the hill
And through the valley—wheresoe'er they will.
I go unheeding, where the breeze doth lead;
I go where all things go, and whither speed
Like me, unconscious from a life as brief,
The laurel, and the perfumed rose's leaf.”
My parent oak, sole shelter from its blast;
And now all winds, the gentle and the rude,
Do sport with me, and from my native wood
Down to the plain they bear me,—o'er the hill
And through the valley—wheresoe'er they will.
I go unheeding, where the breeze doth lead;
I go where all things go, and whither speed
Like me, unconscious from a life as brief,
The laurel, and the perfumed rose's leaf.”
| Beads from a Rosary | |