English poem
Restless mortals toil for nought
by Anonymous
Restless mortals toil for nought, Bliss in vain from earth is sought; Bliss, a native of the sky, Never wanders—mortals try; There you cannot seek in vain, For to seek her is to gain.
COME gentle age! to me thou dost appear No cruel object of regret or fear; Thy stealing step I unreluctant see, Nor would avoid, or wish to fly from thee.
OTHER's good turns to thee be sure to tell, But nothing say, when thou thyself dost well.