Weep thou no more; a common lot is thine!
Fold thy meek hands upon thy heaving breast:
In alien sympathy can be no rest;
There is no lasting joy but trust divine.
O, heart that long'st for death, but may'st not die!
O, weary heart, all wasted with thy pain,
That striv'st against the stream, yet all in vain,
Weep thou no more, none hear thy weary cry!
The cold and distant stars are gazing still,
In the hushed midnight on thy falling tears;
Thus have they gazed, for many thousand years,
On all varieties of human ill;
And yet they shine as on Creation's dawn,
'Midst their eternal music. All things cease,
Sooner or later, lapped in perfect peace,
For nature knows no turning. All things born
Take sorrow for their heirloom with the light,
But wake and cry, and fall to sleep again;
So slumber thou,—in sleep forget thy pain;
White morn is breaking in the darkest night,
The billows fast return upon the shore,
The morn-dew on the myrtle to the sea;
Whence rose thy trust, there only rest can be;
Thither thou driftest fast,—weep thou no more!