Claiborne Guardian

THE VOICE OF THE WINDS.
[Edwin Arnold in "The Light of Asia"]
We are the voices of the wandering wind
Which moan for rest and rest can ne'er find;
Lo! as the wind is, so is mortal life—
A moan, a sigh, a sob, a storm, a strife,
Wherefore and whence we are ye can not know,
Nor whence life spring, nor whither life doth go;
We are as ye are, ghosts from the inane—
What pleasure have we of our changeful pain?
What pleasure hast thou of thy changeless bliss?
Nay, if thou lasted, there were joy in this:
But life's way is the wind's way, all these things
Are but brief voices breathed on shifting strings.
O. Maya's son! because we roam the earth
Moan we upon these strings; we make no mirth;
So many woes we see in many lands,
So many, streaming eyes and wringing hands.
Yet mock we while we wail, for could they know
This life they cling to is but empty show:
It were all as well to bid a cloud to stand,
Or hold a running river with the hand.
But thou that art to save, thine hour is nigh!
The sad world waiteth in its misery
The blind world stumbleth on its round of pain;
Rise, Maya's child! wake! slumber not again!
We are the voices of the wandering wind:
Wander thou, too. O Prince, thy rest to find:
Leave love for love of lovers, for woe's sake
Quit state for sorrow, and deliverance make.
So sigh we, passing o'er the silver strings,
To thee: who know'st not yet of earthly things
So say we, not king as we pass away
These lovely shadows wherewith thou dost play.