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Critics, you, like barren flowers,
Ever fruitless, know it well:
’Tis most easy to write verses,
When one nothing has to tell.
(Posthumous)
Of the masts by thousands leaving
Shores which many an ocean laves,
O how many will be shattered
By the winds and by the waves.
Of the birds by thousands wand’ring,
Many a one a grave soon finds,
While still hopeful it is driven
By the waves and by the winds.
If to high ideals aspiring,
Or thy soul but fortune craves,
Thou art driven wheresoever
By the winds and by the waves.
Never understood the thought is
That the song in wing’d words binds,
Ever floating, far off echoed
By the waves and by the winds.
