Wandering from the parent bough, Little, trembling leaf, Whither goest thou? “From the beech, where I was born, By the north wind was I torn. Him I follow in his flight, Over mountain, over vale, From the forest to the plain, Up the hill, and down again. With him ever on the way: More than that, I cannot say. Where I go, must all things go, Gentle, simple, high and low: Leaves of laurel, leaves of rose; Whither, heaven only knows!”