Life weeps—yet wherefore does she weep alway?Doth she forebode the ruin of her day?
God fashioned for her portion and her fateExistence' riddle—O, how desolate!
I spend my hours in folding up her scroll,I strive, I yearn, I seek her beauty's whole.
By night I watch her star, her hill, her lea,Her uplands, gardens, seas, and mountains free.
Yet still her secret state I fail to learn,And still I ask: for what does Life discern?
What moves her heart, what burden makes her cry—I know her not, and ever ask: for why?
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