|Trembling at the chill breath of dawn|
The fearful stars said to the moon:
‘About us lies heaven’s changeless scene
Where wearied we must shine, still shine,
Tasked to move on, on, morn and eve—
To move, to move, for ever move!
No creature of this world knows rest,
Nowhere can fabled peace exist,
All things condemned by tyrant laws
To wander, stars, men, rocks, and tress—
But shall this journeying ever end,
Ever a destination find?’
|‘Oh my companions,’ said the moon,|
‘You who night’s harvest-acres glean,
On motion all this world’s life hangs:
Such is the ancient doom of things.
Swift runs the shadowy steed of time
Lashed by desire’s whip into foam,
And there’s no loitering on that oath,
For hidden in repose lurks death:
They that press on win clear—the late,
The laggard, trampled underfoot.
And what the goal of all this haste?—
Its cradle love, beauty its quest.’