"WHAT PROFIT HATH A MAN OF ALL HIS LABOR THAT HE TAKETH UNDER THE SUN?"
Must we forever train the vineyard sproutings,
And plough in hope of harvests yet to come,
Nor ever join the gladsome vintage shoutings,
And sing the happy song of harvest-home?
Must we forever the rough stones be heaping,
And building temple walls for evermore?
Comes there no blessed day for Sabbath-keeping,
No time within the temple to adore?
In faith's long contest have life's quenchless fountains
Bade calm defiance to the hostile sword?
But when, all beautiful upon the mountains,
Shall come the herald of our peace restored?
Must we forever urge the brain with learning,
And add to moral, intellectual woes?
Nor hold in peace the spoils we have been earning,
And find in wisdom's self the mind's repose?
Long have we watch'd, and risen late and early,
Rising to toil, and watching but to weep;
When will the blessing come like dewdrops pearly,
"On heaven's beloved ones even while they sleep?"
Since life began, our life has been beginning,
That ever-nascent future's treacherous vow;
When shall we find, the weary contest winning
A present treasure, an enduring now?
Ten thousand nameless earthly aims pursuing,
Hope we in vain the recompense to see,
And must our total life expire in doing,
And never find us leisure time to be?
Has not our life a germ of real perfection,
As holds the tiny seed the forest's pride?
And shall its ask'd and promised resurrection
In dreams of disappointed hope subside?
Yes, all is hopeless, man with vain endeavor,
May climb earth's rugged heights, but climb to fall;
Ever perfecting, yet imperfect ever,
Earth has no rest for man—if earth be all.