Ah, paled and faded leaf. of spring agone, Whither goest thou? Art speeding to Another land upon the brooklet's breast? Or art thou sailing to the sea, to lodge Amid a reef, and, kissed by wind and wave, Die of too much love? Thou'lt find a resting place amid the moss, And, ah, who knows! The royal gem May be thine own love's offering. Or wilt thou flutter as a time-yellowed page, And mould among thy sisters, Ere the sun may peep within the pack? Or will the robin nest with thee At Spring's awakening? The romping brook Will never chide thee, but ever coax thee on. And shouldst thou be impaled Upon a thorny branch, what then? Try not a flight; thy sisters call thee! Could crocus spring from frost? And wilt thou let the violet shrink and die? Nay, speed not, for God hath not A mast for thee provided.