Song

The stream moaneth as it floweth,
The wind sigheth as it bloweth,
Leaves are falling, Autumn goeth,
Winter cometh back again;
And the air is very chilly,
And the country rough and hilly,
And I shiver in the rain.
Who will help me? Who will love me?
Heaven sets forth no light above me;
Ancient memories reprove me,
Long-forgotten feelings move me,
I am full of heaviness.
Earth is cold, too cold the sea;
Whither shall I turn and flee?
Is there any hope for me?
Any ease for my heart-aching?
Any sleep that hath no waking?
Any night without day-breaking?
Any rest from weariness?
Hark! the wind is answering:
Hark! the running stream replieth:
There is rest for him that dieth;
In the grave whoever lieth
Nevermore hath sorrowing.
Holy slumber, holy quiet,
Close the eyes and still the riot;
And the brain forgets its thought,
And the heart forgets its beating. —
Earth and earthly things are fleeting,
There is what all men have sought;
Long, unchangeable repose,
Lulling us from many woes.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.