A Song

Dry leaf trembling on the branches Before the blast, Poor heart quaking in the bosom For woe thou hast; Ah what matter if the wind then, Withered leaf from blooming linden Should scatter wide? Would for this the twig or branches Have wailing sighed? And should the lad his fate upbraid, Although he ignominious fade— And in an alien country die? Will for him the beauteous maid Complaining cry?