Wherefore, O Moon, art thou on high? O say, Thou silent Moon serene! At night thou dost proceed, Our waste beholding, then dost sink to rest. Hast thou ne'er weary been Of repursuing the everlasting way? Untired as yet, still takest thou delight On earth to turn thy sight? Even as thy life on high, The shepherd's life doth fly. When dawn succeeds to night, He sallies forth and leads his flock to graze. He sees the grass and flowers, And, weary, resteth in nocturnal hours, Nor other hope doth raise. Say, Moon, what boots his life To humble swain, or thy Divine existence unto thee on high? Where doth my life below, Thy course immortal go?
Even as an old man bent, Ragged and white of hair, Whose aching shoulders grievous fardels bear, O'er mountains and through vales, O'er pointed rocks, through sandy wastes, through marshes, A prey to winds, to tempests, to fierce heat, To snow, to ice, to sleet, Still toils upon his way, Through sloughs and torrents goes, Falls, rises, hurries as though time were brief, Without rest or relief, Footsore and suffering, until he arrives Where his long path did tend, Where all his weary wandering finds an end: A dread abyss profound Where dark oblivion grasps him as her prey: Thou virgin Moon, even so Is this our life below.
Man draws for toil his breath, And birth itself is on the verge of death. In pain and suffering dire His days begin, and in life's early morn His mother and his sire Try to console him that he e'er was born. As he in years doth grow, They help him onwards, and for ever strive, By action and by word, To keep his hope alive, And to console him for our fate below: Nor any way more kind Their fondness to display, can parents find. But why give to the light, Why with life animate A wretched spirit ever seeking balm? If heavy be our fate, Why do we bear its weight? O virgin Moon, even so Is this our life below. But thou in region calm Dost little heed upon my wail bestow.
Eternal pilgrim on thy lonely way, Who full of thought dost shed thy silver ray, Perchance to thee well known Are life and suffering and distressful moan; Thou knowest what is death, what the supreme Grey pallor of the face, The earth that leaveth not a mental trace, And the awakening from our life's deep dream. And thou, in truth, dost see The cause of things, and what the fruit may be Of morning and of night, And of Time's silent, never-ending flight. Thou knowest, in truth, what tender love and sweet Spring with its buds doth greet, Why summer heats arise, and what device Brings winter with its ice. A thousand things unto thy soul are plain, Which are but riddles to the simple swain. Oft when I see thee shine In lonely sphere and solemn state divine Upon our waste that stretches to the skies; Or when my flock I lead And see thy radiance on my path proceed, And when the stars' clear rays attract mine eyes, Within my soul I say: "What means so many a ray? Where goes the wind? what booteth in the sky The endless space serene? What is the thought Of this vast solitude, and what am I?" Thus my amazement to express I sought, Nor of the proud abode, Too vast in size, nor of the unnumbered race, Nor of the labours and the powers that goad All things of earth and of the realms divine, Revolving without rest, To be again where they commenced their road: Of all I cannot trace The use or meaning. Surely thou art blest With deeper lore, who in the spheres dost shine. I only know and feel, Of all the skies reveal, Of my frail life below, That unto me existence is but woe.