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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!"

© Giacomo Leopardi