Flying leaves the wild Spring scatters,
From the silver blossomed trees,
Let them fallit little matters;
Fresh-born buds will greet each breeze.
Flying leaves, grim Winter strewing,
Shudder thro' the forest glades,
All their beauty past renewing
Round his footsteps falls and fades.
Flying leaves come floating hither;
"Everlasting" these will prove,
Leaves that never fall or wither,
Crown the brow of constant love.
Flying Leaves
written byFrances Anne Kemble
© Frances Anne Kemble