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Think thou
and act; tomorrow thou shalt die.
Outstretched in the
sun's warmth upon the shore,
Thou sayst: "Man's
measured path is all gone o'er:
Up all his years,
steeply, with strain and sigh,
Man clomb until he
touched the truth; and I,
Even I, am he whom it was
destined for."
How should this be? Art thou then so
much more
Than they who sowed, that thou shouldst
reap thereby?
Nay, come up hither. From this
wave-washed mound
Unto the furthest flood-brim look
with me;
Then reach on with thy thought till it be
drowned.
Miles and miles distant though the last line
be,
And though thy soul sail leagues and leagues
beyond, -
Still, leagues beyond those leagues, there
is more sea.
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