Wanderer
O Nature! everlastingly conceiving.
Each one thou bearest for the joy of life,
All of thy babes thou hast endowed
Lovingly with a heritage—a Name.
High on the cornice doth the swallow build,
Of what an ornament she hides
All unaware.
The caterpillar round the golden bough
Spins her a winter quarters for her young.
Thus dost thou patch in ’twixt the august
Fragments of bygone time
For needs of thine—for thy own needs
A hut. O men—
Rejoicing over graves.
Farewell, thou happy wife.