Unrest.
The rose that is perfect to-day is blown overfull to-
morrow ;1
morrow ;1
Life is nothing but change, and change is nothing but
sorrow.2
sorrow.2
The world sways back and forth, a measureless vast
machine,3
machine,3
High and low, and ever bringing back what has been.4
The days that dawn and die, the moons that wax and
wane,5
wane,5
The seasons that freeze and burn, the grain and the
crop and the grain,6
crop and the grain,6
Are symbols of change unchanging, of cycles whirling
by,7
by,7
The living aping the dead, and ripe in their turn to
die.8
die.8
Could we clear our eyes to gaze, we should see to the
verge of time9
verge of time9
The long dead level of death and life and love and
crime,10
crime,10
Torn and tossed by passion, and ridged and quarried
with graves11
with graves11
As the changeless level of ocean is broken by tides and
waves.12
waves.12
Where shall our feet find rest ? Or is there a rest to
find ?13
find ?13
Is rest a dreamy delusion shaped by a restless mind ?14
A rainbow arching our sky, looked on but never
possest ?15
possest ?15
Our feet must stumble on, while our hearts cry out for
rest.16
rest.16
The world sways back and forth, suns kindle and flash
and die,17
and die,17
Our stars arise and set till the dawn of eternity.18