Have I the heart to wander on the earth,
So patient in her everlasting course,
Seeking no prize, but bowing to the force
That gives direction and hath given birth?
Rain tears, sweet Pity, to refresh my dearth,
And plough my sterile bosom, sharp Remorse,
That I grow sick and curse my being’s source
If haply one day passes lacking mirth.
Doth the sun therefore burn, that I may bask?
Or do the tired earth and tireless sea,
That toil not for their pleasure, toil for me?
Amid the world’s long striving, wherefore ask
What reasons were, or what rewards shall be?
The covenant God gave us is a task.
Other works by George Santayana...
