From the French of A. V. Arnault

“De ta tige détachée.”

“From thy branchlet torn away, Whither, whither dost thou stray, Poor dry leaf?”—“I cannot say. Late, the tempest struck the oak, Which was hitherto my stay. Ever since that fatal stroke, To the faithless winds a prey, Not a moment’s rest I gain. From the forest to the plain, I am carried by the gale. Yet I only go the way That the rose-leaf shuns in vain, And where laurel-leaves grow pale.”