Classic Poem

French of Arnault

From off thy frail stem broke,
Poor, withered leaf, and dead,
Where goest thou?
It said:
I know not. From the oak,
My sole support, the storm
Has torn my frost-browned form.
Since then, by fickle wind,
Zephyr or Aquilon,
From forest to the plain,
To vale from mountain-top,
I'm hurried, driven on.
My path I never mind:
Where'er the breezes blow,
On land or on the main,
I go, nor care to stop.
I go where all things go, —
Where goes the beauteous rose,
Where the poet's laurel goes.