The Leaf.

(After the French of Arnault.)

From thy tender stem snatched free,
Poor leaf in thy misery,
Where goest thou? Nought can I say:
The storm-wind bath broken in death
The oak which alone was my stay;
And now with his wavering breath
South wind or north blowing amain,
My way through the world harrieth,
From forest to meadow beneath,
From mountain to valley again.
I go where the wind listeth
With never a plaint, fearlessly—
I go with all things to a close,
Where goeth the leaf of the rose
And the leaf of the laurel tree.

Nena N. Newall.