The poem
THE soul of man Resembleth water: From heaven it cometh, To heaven it soareth. And then again To earth descendeth, Changing ever.
Down from the lofty Rocky wall Streams the bright flood, Then spreadeth gently In cloudy billows O'er the smooth rock, And welcomed kindly, Veiling, on roams it, Soft murmuring, Tow'rd the abyss.
Cliffs projecting Oppose its progress,-- Angrily foams it Down to the bottom, Step by step.
Now, in flat channel, Through the meadowland steals it, And in the polish'd lake Each constellation Joyously peepeth.
Wind is the loving Wooer of waters; Wind blends together Billows all-foaming.
Spirit of man, Thou art like unto water! Fortune of man, Thou art like unto wind!
1789.*