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!"