Flying Leaves
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Frances Anne Kemble
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Flying leaves the wild Spring scatters,
From the silver blossomed trees,
Let them fall—it 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.
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