Gray Cliff, Newport

What strivest thou for, oh thou most mighty ocean,
Rolling thy ceaseless sweeping surfs ashore?
Canst thou not stay that restless wild commotion?
Must that low murmur moan for evermore?
Yet thou art better than our hearts, though yearning
Still for some unattain'd, unknown land;
Thou still art constant, evermore returning,
With each fresh wind, to kiss our waiting strand.
Oh, heart! if restless, like the yearning ocean,
Like it be all thy waves, of one emotion!
Whither, with canvas wings, oh ship, art sailing —
Homeward or outward-bound, to shore or seal
What thought within thy strong sidesis prevailing,
Hope or despair, sorrow or careless glee?
Thou, too, art like our hearts, which gayly seeming,
With hope sails set, to catch each fresh'ning breeze,
In truth art sad, with tears and trials teeming —
Perhaps to sail no more on life's wild seas.
Oh, heart! while sailing, like a ship, remember,
Thou, too, may'st founder, in a rough December!
Why, your white arms, ye windmills, are ye crossing
In sad succession to the evening breeze,
As though within your gray old heads were tossing
Thoughts of fatigue, and longings after ease'? —
But ye are better than our hearts, for grieving,
Over your cares, ye work your destined way,
While they, their solemn duties weakly leaving,
In helpless sorrow weep their lives away.
Oh, heart! if like those hoary giants mourning,
Why not be taught, by their instructive warning!