I drift as aimless as a leaf on the stream,
light as a whisper, gentle as a dream,
and darkly stirring shapes may break the water’s flow,
but as a lead, these shapes I will not know.
I fall as a blossom in the storm after the bloom,
slipping from a scanty stay in my sprightly room
I may be wheeling freely, through the thickly fragrant year,
but neither branch nor ground below are reason much to fear.