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BREVITIES.

The Leaf.

"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,

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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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