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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It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.