WHY stand ye, nurslings of Earth, before my gates,
Mouthing aloud my glory and my thrall?
Are ye alone the playthings of the fates,
And only ye o'ershadowed with a pall?
Turn from this spectacle of strength unbound–
This fearful force that spends itself in folly!
Turn ye and hark above the organ-sound
My Over-song of Melancholy!
'I rush and roar
Along my shore,–
I go sweeping, thundering on;
Yet my days, O man,
Are but as a span,
And soon shall my strength be gone!
My times are measured
In whose hand I am treasured,
(Think not of thy little day!)
Though I rush and roar
Along my shore,
I am passing away–
Passing away!

'The sun and the moon
They too shall soon
Sink back into eternal Night:
All earth and the sea
Shall cease to be,
And the stars shall melt in their flight!
Their times are measured
In whose hand they are treasured,
(Think not of thy little day!)
The celestial throng
Chant my Over-song,–
'Passing away,–
Passing away!''
Then stand not, nurslings of Earth, before my gates,
Mouthing aloud my glory and my thrall:
Not ye alone are playthings of the fates,
Nor only ye o'ershadowed with a pall!
But hark to my song
As I sweep along,
Thundering my organ-tone–
'O vain is all Life,
O vain is all Strife,
And fruitless the Years that have flown!
As the Worst; so the Best–
All haste to their rest
In the void of the Primal Unknown.'