In thy walk and in thy sleep
Beyond thy finite power it lies
To chain the coursers of the skies.
Even nomads and cells minute
Worlds of unrest constitute.
Rest is no where to be found;
Each to all in suffering bound.
And no power can deliver thee,
Mortal, from activity.
In thy life as in thy death,
In thy heart as in thy breath,
On the earth as in the skies
Restless Motion never dies.
Always raging, always spinning,
Endless and without beginning.
Death, like me, is seeking Rest.
And all the seas are in her quest;
But ah, poor souls, she is beyond
Our grasp; we must go on and on.
No, nor even the grave is free
From the laws that shackle me;
New life from his worms takes wing,
And on his face fresh blossoms spring.
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