A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Réverie (Auguste Lacaussade)
RÉVERIE.
Tell me, O moving star, with wings of light
That floatest in the azure of the sky,
Where goest thou? What goal is in thy sight?
Wilt thou not furl thy wings somewhere on high?
Tell me, O pensive moon, whom oft I mark,
Threading the milky way the heavens disclose,
In what strange cavern, luminous or dark,
Thou shalt at last, fair pilgrim, find repose?
Tell me, O wind, that wanderest through space
Like a poor prodigal without hearth or home,
Is there for thee no quiet resting-place
In forest brown or on the ocean-foam?
Tell me, O wave, that with a hungry roar
Lashest the mountains tow'ring by the deep,
Past the horizon line is there no shore
Where thou shalt glide serene and fall asleep?
And thou, O heart, more wild than billow vext,
Or fretful wind whose conflicts never cease,
Is there no spot in this world or the next
Where thou canst find forgetfulness and peace?