And whither wouldst thou fly, O soul,
If thou hadst wings?
Is rest beyond the seas? — at either pole?
Are there the springs,
Where Heaven's pure waters bubble up below?
And the far oceans answer sadly, "No!"
Tell me, O soul! where thou wouldst fly
To find thy rest?
Among the stars? — the spaces of the sky? —
From east to west?
And suns and stars make answer, sphere on sphere,
"Back, back, O wingèd soul! Rest is not here!"
Where wouldst thou fly? To works? — to empty forms
With thy dove-wings?
Will these give shelter from eternal storms —
These poor dead things?
And "working" answers with a voice severe,
"Turn back, mistaken soul. Rest is not here!"
Oh, heart! thou need'st not fly away
To find thy rest.
Peace seeks for thee, if thou wilt stay
And just be blest.
Fold up thy wings and sit at Jesus' feet;
There wilt thou find thy Heaven — a rest complete!