And though it be stopped in its flowing, yet hath it a current within,
The surface may sleep unruffled, but underneath are whirlpools of contention.
Seekest thou rest, O mortal?—seek it no more on earth,
For destiny will not cease from dragging thee through the rough wilderness of life;
Seekest thou rest, O immortal?—hope not to find it in heaven,
For sloth yieldeth not happiness: the bliss of a spirit is action.
Rest dwelleth only on an island in the midst of the ocean of existence,
Where the world-weary soul for a while may fold its tired wings,
Until, after short sufficient slumber, it is quickened unto deathless energy,
And speedeth in eagle flight to the Sun of unapproachable Perfection.