The Stars Are Failing, And The Sky Is Like A Field Of Faded Flowers; The Winds On Weary Wings Go By; The Moon Hides, And The Temptest Lowers; And Still Through Every Clime And Age I Wander On A Pilgrimage That All Men Know An Idle Quest, For That The Goal I Seek Is - Rest! I Hear The Voice Of Summer Streams, And, Following, I Find The Brink Of Cooling Springs, With Childish Dreams Returning As I Bend To Drink - But Suddenly, With Startled Eyes, My Face Looks On Its Grim Disguise Of Long Gray Beard; And So, Distressed, I Hasten On, Nor Taste Of Rest. I Come Upon A Merry Group Of Children In The Dusky Wood, Who Answer Back The Owlet'S Whoop, That Laughs As It Had Understood; And I Would Pause A Little Space, But That Each Happy Blossom-Face Is Like To One His Hands Have Blessed Who Sent Me Forth In Search Of Rest. Sometimes I Fain Would Stay My Feet In Shady Lanes, Where Huddled Kine Couch In The Grasses Cool And Sweet, And Lift Their Patient Eyes To Mine; But I, For Thoughts That Ever Then Go Back To Bethlehem Again, Must Needs Fare On My Weary Quest, And Weep For Very Need Of Rest. Is There No End? I Plead In Vain: Lost Worlds Nor Living Answer Me. Since Pontius Pilate'S Awful Reign Have I Not Passed Eternity? Have I Not Drank The Fetid Breath Of Every Fevered Phase Of Death, And Come Unscathed Through Every Pest And Scourge And Plague That Promised Rest? Have I Not Seen The Stars Go Out That Shed Their Light O'Er Galilee, And Mighty Kingdoms Tossed About And Crumbled Clod-Like In The Sea? Dead Ashes Of Dead Ages Blow And Cover Me Like Drifting Snow, And Time Laughs On As 'Twere A Jest That I Have Any Need Of Rest.