Translation From Millevoye by Frances Anne Kemble

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Fallen from thy parent bough,
Poor wither’d leaf, where goest thou?
From the mountain to the vale,
From the forest to the hill
I flutter, carried by the gale,
Hither, thither, at its will.
I go where each thing goes,
Without complaint or grief,
The leaf of the withered rose
And the faded laurel leaf.

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