Classic Poem

Falling leaves leave the trees
float and flutter with the wind.
A traveler with no place of my own,
my sorrow is the same as these.
But think of how the falling leaves
are used for kindling in the valleys
to light the cooking fires there
and feed the hungry people.
They are nothing but the leavings of trees,
and yet they have at least this virtue.
Oh, oh, it seems that I
must be more useless than a falling leaf.