Night Song Of A Wandering Shepherd In Asia.

What doest thou in heaven, O moon?         Say, silent moon, what doest thou?         Thou risest in the evening; thoughtfully         Thou wanderest o'er the plain,         Then sinkest to thy rest again.         And art thou never satisfied         With going o'er and o'er the selfsame ways?         Art never wearied? Dost thou still         Upon these valleys love to gaze?         How much thy life is like         The shepherd's life, forlorn!         He rises in the early dawn,         He moves his flock along the plain;         The selfsame flocks, and streams, and herbs         He sees again;         Then drops to rest, the day's work o'er;         And hopes for nothing more.         Tell me, O moon, what signifies his life         To him, thy life to thee? Say, whither tend         My weary, short-lived pilgrimage,         Thy course, that knows no end?         And old man, gray, infirm,         Half-clad, and barefoot, he,         Beneath his burden bending wearily,         O'er mountain and o'er vale,         Sharp rocks, and briars, and burning sand,         In wind, and storm, alike in sultry heat         And in the winter's cold,         His constant course doth hold;         On, on, he, panting, goes,         Nor pause, nor rest he knows;         Through rushing torrents, over watery wastes;         He falls, gets up again,         And ever more and more he hastes,         Torn, bleeding, and arrives at last         Where ends the path,         Where all his troubles end;         A vast abyss and horrible,         Where plunging headlong, he forgets them all.         Such scene of suffering, and of strife,         O moon, is this our mortal life.         In travail man is born;         His birth too oft the cause of death,         And with his earliest breath         He pain and torment feels: e'en from the first,         His parents fondly strive         To comfort him in his distress;         And if he lives and grows,         They struggle hard, as best they may,         With pleasant words and deeds to cheer him up,         And seek with kindly care,         To strengthen him his cruel lot to bear.         This is the best that they can do         For the poor child, however fond and true.         But wherefore give him life?         Why bring him up at all,         If this be all?         If life is nought but pain and care,         Why, why should we the burden bear?         O spotless moon, such is         Our mortal life, indeed;         But thou immortal art,         Nor wilt, perhaps, unto my words give heed.         Yet thou, eternal, lonely wanderer,         Who, thoughtful, lookest on this earthly scene,         Must surely understand         What all our sighs and sufferings mean;         What means this death,         This color from our cheeks that fades,         This passing from the earth, and losing sight         Of every dear, familiar scene.         Well must thou comprehend         The reason of these things; must see         The good the morning and the evening bring:         Thou knowest, thou, what love it is         That brings sweet smiles unto the face of spring;         The meaning of the Summer's glow,         And of the Winter's frost and snow,         And of the silent, endless flight of Time.         A thousand things to thee their secrets yield,         That from the simple shepherd are concealed.         Oft as I gaze at thee,         In silence resting o'er the desert plain,         Which in the distance borders on the sky,         Or following me, as I, by slow degrees,         My flocks before me drive;         And when I gaze upon the stars at night,         In thought I ask myself,         "Why all these torches bright?         What mean these depths of air,         This vast, this silent sky,         This nightly solitude? And what am I?"         Thus to myself I talk; and of this grand,         Magnificent expanse,         And its untold inhabitants,         And all this mighty motion, and this stir         Of things above, and things below,         No rest that ever know,         But as they still revolve, must still return         Unto the place from which they came, -         Of this, alas, I find nor end nor aim!         But thou, immortal, surely knowest all.         This I well know, and feel;         From these eternal rounds,         And from my being frail,         Others, perchance, may pleasure, profit gain;         To me life is but pain.         My flock, now resting there, how happy thou,         That knowest not, I think, thy misery!         O how I envy thee!         Not only that from suffering         Thou seemingly art free;         That every trouble, every loss,         Each sudden fear, thou canst so soon forget;         But more because thou sufferest         No weariness of mind.         When in the shade, upon the grass reclined,         Thou seemest happy and content,         And great part of the year by thee         In sweet release from care is spent.         But when I sit upon the grass         And in the friendly shade, upon my mind         A weight I feel, a sense of weariness,         That, as I sit, doth still increase         And rob me of all rest and peace.         And yet I wish for nought,         And have, till now, no reason to complain.         What joy, how much I cannot say;         But thou some pleasure dost obtain.         My joys are few enough;         But not for that do I lament.         Ah, couldst thou speak, I would inquire:         Tell me, dear flock, the reason why         Each weary breast can rest at ease,         While all things round him seem to please;         And yet, if I lie down to rest,         I am by anxious thoughts oppressed?         Perhaps, if I had wings         Above the clouds to fly,         And could the stars all number, one by one,         Or like the lightning leap from rock to rock,         I might be happier, my dear flock,         I might be happier, gentle moon!         Perhaps my thought still wanders from the truth,         When I at others' fortunes look:         Perhaps in every state beneath the sun,         Or high, or low, in cradle or in stall,         The day of birth is fatal to us all.