"FROM thy branch sustaining torn,
Seared and withered, leaf forlorn,
Whither restless dost thou go?"
'T is not granted me to know.
From my lone support, an oak,
I was swept by whirlwind's stroke;
Zephyrs, north-winds blowing fast
With an ever-varying blast,
Till to-day have hurried me
Through the forest, o'er the lea
From the hills to valleys low,
Whither winds impel I go,
Fearing not, without a moan.
Whither all goes, I'll begone,
Whither leaf of withered rose
And the laurel leaflet goes.
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Appleton Chapel.