Wherefore, O Moon, art thou on high? O say,
Thou silent Moon serene!
At night thou dost proceed,
Our waste beholding, then dost sink to rest.
Hast thou ne'er weary been
Of repursuing the everlasting way?
Untired as yet, still takest thou delight
On earth to turn thy sight?
Even as thy life on high,
The shepherd's life doth fly.
When dawn succeeds to night,
He sallies forth and leads his flock to graze.
He sees the grass and flowers,
And, weary, resteth in nocturnal hours,
Nor other hope doth raise.
Say, Moon, what boots his life
To humble swain, or thy
Divine existence unto thee on high?
Where doth my life below,
Thy course immortal go?
Even as an old man bent,
Ragged and white of hair,
Whose aching shoulders grievous fardels bear,
O'er mountains and through vales,
O'er pointed rocks, through sandy wastes, through marshes,
A prey to winds, to tempests, to fierce heat,
To snow, to ice, to sleet,
Still toils upon his way,
Through sloughs and torrents goes,
Falls, rises, hurries as though time were brief,
Without rest or relief,
Footsore and suffering, until he arrives
Where his long path did tend,
Where all his weary wandering finds an end:
A dread abyss profound
Where dark oblivion grasps him as her prey:
Thou virgin Moon, even so
Is this our life below.
Man draws for toil his breath,
And birth itself is on the verge of death.
In pain and suffering dire
His days begin, and in life's early morn
His mother and his sire
Try to console him that he e'er was born.
As he in years doth grow,
They help him onwards, and for ever strive,
By action and by word,
To keep his hope alive,
And to console him for our fate below:
Nor any way more kind
Their fondness to display, can parents find.
But why give to the light,
Why with life animate
A wretched spirit ever seeking balm?
If heavy be our fate,
Why do we bear its weight?
O virgin Moon, even so
Is this our life below.
But thou in region calm
Dost little heed upon my wail bestow.
Eternal pilgrim on thy lonely way,
Who full of thought dost shed thy silver ray,
Perchance to thee well known
Are life and suffering and distressful moan;
Thou knowest what is death, what the supreme
Grey pallor of the face,
The earth that leaveth not a mental trace,
And the awakening from our life's deep dream.
And thou, in truth, dost see
The cause of things, and what the fruit may be
Of morning and of night,
And of Time's silent, never-ending flight.
Thou knowest, in truth, what tender love and sweet
Spring with its buds doth greet,
Why summer heats arise, and what device
Brings winter with its ice.
A thousand things unto thy soul are plain,
Which are but riddles to the simple swain.
Oft when I see thee shine
In lonely sphere and solemn state divine
Upon our waste that stretches to the skies;
Or when my flock I lead
And see thy radiance on my path proceed,
And when the stars' clear rays attract mine eyes,
Within my soul I say:
"What means so many a ray?
Where goes the wind? what booteth in the sky
The endless space serene? What is the thought
Of this vast solitude, and what am I?"
Thus my amazement to express I sought,
Nor of the proud abode,
Too vast in size, nor of the unnumbered race,
Nor of the labours and the powers that goad
All things of earth and of the realms divine,
Revolving without rest,
To be again where they commenced their road:
Of all I cannot trace
The use or meaning. Surely thou art blest
With deeper lore, who in the spheres dost shine.
I only know and feel,
Of all the skies reveal,
Of my frail life below,
That unto me existence is but woe.
O thou, my flock that liest in repose!
Thrice blessed thou, unconscious of distress!
How much I envy thee!
Nor merely that from woes
Thy destiny is free,
Nor that all things unkind,
All sudden fears soon vanish from thy mind;
But most because thou knowest not weariness.
When lying on a grassy plot in shade,
Thou art contented made.
A long part of the year
Thus flies by thee, and not a care is near.
And I as well on grassy plot in shade
My body oft have laid;
But weariness lies heavy on my soul;
And, seated, I am further from the goal
Of peace and sweet repose.
And yet I yearn for nought,
Nor have I any reason for my woes.
What makes thy happy state
I cannot say; but thou art fortunate,
And I have little joy,
My flock; nor therein lies my whole annoy.
If thou couldst speak, I'd ask
Why, lying in calm shade,
All beasts are happy made;
But when I leisure know
I am assailed by weariness and woe?
If wings perchance had I
Above the clouds to fly,
And one by one the radiant stars to count,
Or like fierce thunder o'er the crags to roam,
I should be happier, thou my gentle flock,
I should be happier, virgin Moon on high.
Or else, perchance, my thought
By vagrant dreams is full of errors fraught;
Perchance in every form
That Nature may on everything bestow,
The day of birth brings everlasting woe.