  THOU sea, whose tireless waves Forever seek the shore, Striving to clamber higher, Yet failing evermore; Why wilt thou still aspire Though losing thy desire? Thou sun, whose constant feet Mount ever to thy noon, Thou canst not there remain, Night quenches thee so soon; Why wilt thou still aspire Though losing thy desire? Rose, in my garden growing, Unharmed by winter’s snows, Another winter cometh Ere all thy buds unclose; Why wilt thou still aspire Though losing thy desire? Mortal, with feeble hands Striving some work to do, Fate, with her cruel shears, Doth all thy steps pursue; Why wilt thou still aspire Though losing thy desire? The Roses, Newburgh, |
|
