And in the very grave would hide my head.
Lord! What is man? Up to the sun he flies,
Or feebly wanders through earth’s vale of dust:
There is he lost ’midst heaven’s high mysteries,
And here in error and in darkness lost.
Beneath the stormclouds, on life’s raging sea,
Like a poor sailor, by the tempest tossed
In a frail bark, the sport of destiny,
He sleeps, and dashes on the rocky coast.
Thou breathest, and the obedient storm is still.