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.