The Wandering Jew

The stars are falling, and the sky     Is like a field of faded flowers;     The winds on weary wings go by;     The moon hides, and the tempest 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 drunk 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.