THE PREACHER’S ADDRESS TO THE SOUL.
Weary soul,
Why dost thou still disquiet
Thyself with senseless riot,
Taking thy fill and measure
Of earthly pleasure?
The things which thou dost prize
Are not realities;
All is but seeming.
Waking, thou still liest dreaming.
That which before thine eye
Now passeth, or hath past,
Is nought but vanity—
It cannot last.
This evil world, be sure,
Shall not endure.
Art thou a-weary, Soul, and dost thou cry
For rest? Wait, and thou soon shalt have
That thou dost crave,
For Death is real—the Grave no mockery.