Imitation.

by Giacomo Leopardi

　　

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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!”

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