Though the torrents from their fountains 
Roar down many a craggy steep, 
Yet they find among the mountains 
Resting-places calm and deep. 

Clouds that love through air to hasten, 
Ere the storm its fury stills, 
Helmet-like themselves will fasten 
On the heads of towering hills. 

What, if through the frozen centre 
Of the Alps the Chamois bound, 
Yet he has a home to enter 
In some nook of chosen ground: 

And the Sea-horse, though the ocean 
Yield him no domestic cave, 
Slumbers without sense of motion, 
Couched upon the rocking wave. 

If on windy days the Raven 
Gambol like a dancing skiff, 
Not the less she loves her haven 
In the bosom of the cliff. 

The fleet Ostrich, till day closes, 
Vagrant over desert sands, 
Brooding on her eggs reposes 
When chill night that care demands. 

Day and night my toils redouble, 
Never nearer to the goal; 
Night and day, I feel the trouble 
Of the Wanderer in my soul.