THOUGH the torrents from their fountains <br />Roar down many a craggy steep, <br />Yet they find among the mountains <br />Resting-places calm and deep. <br /> <br />Clouds that love through air to hasten, <br />Ere the storm its fury stills, <br />Helmet-like themselves will fasten <br />On the heads of towering hills. <br /> <br />What, if through the frozen centre <br />Of the Alps the Chamois bound, <br />Yet he has a home to enter <br />In some nook of chosen ground: <br /> <br />And the Sea-horse, though the ocean <br />Yield him no domestic cave, <br />Slumbers without sense of motion, <br />Couched upon the rocking wave. <br /> <br />If on windy days the Raven <br />Gambol like a dancing skiff, <br />Not the less she loves her haven <br />In the bosom of the cliff. <br /> <br />The fleet Ostrich, till day closes, <br />Vagrant over desert sands, <br />Brooding on her eggs reposes <br />When chill night that care demands. <br /> <br />Day and night my toils redouble, <br />Never nearer to the goal; <br />Night and day, I feel the trouble <br />Of the Wanderer in my soul.<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-of-the-wandering-jew/
