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. |