Thou sea, whose tireless waves
Forever seek the shore,
Striving to clamber higher,
Yet failing evermore;
Why wilt thou still aspire
Though losing thy desire?
Thou sun, whose constant feet
Mount ever to thy noon,
Thou canst not there remain,
Night quenches thee so soon;
Why wilt thou still aspire
Though losing thy desire?
Rose, in my garden growing,
Unharmed by winter’s snows,
Another winter cometh
Ere all thy buds unclose;
Why wilt thou still aspire
Though losing thy desire?
Mortal, with feeble hands
Striving some work to do,
Fate, with her cruel shears,
Doth all thy steps pursue;
Why wilt thou still aspire
Though losing thy desire?
The Roses, Newburgh,
April 21, 1853.