WHEN the primeval <br />All-holy Father <br />Sows with a tranquil hand <br />From clouds, as they roll, <br />Bliss-spreading lightnings <br />Over the earth, <br />Then do I kiss the last <br />Hem of his garment, <br />While by a childlike awe <br />Fill'd is my breast. <br /> <br />For with immortals <br />Ne'er may a mortal <br />Measure himself. <br />If he soar upwards <br />And if he touch <br />With his forehead the stars, <br />Nowhere will rest then <br />His insecure feet, <br />And with him sport <br />Tempest and cloud. <br /> <br />Though with firm sinewy <br />Limbs he may stand <br />On the enduring <br />Well-grounded earth, <br />All he is ever <br />Able to do, <br />Is to resemble <br />The oak or the vine. <br /> <br />Wherein do gods <br />Differ from mortals? <br />In that the former <br />See endless billows <br />Heaving before them; <br />Us doth the billow <br />Lift up and swallow, <br />So that we perish. <br /> <br />Small is the ring <br />Enclosing our life, <br />And whole generations <br />Link themselves firmly <br />On to existence's <br />Chain never-ending.<br /><br />Johann Wolfgang von Goethe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-boundaries-of-humanity/
