Iv

He proceeds in the direction of a stream:

Better is death than sleep, Better for tired eyes.-- Why do we weep and weep When near us the solace lies? There, in that stream, that, deep,-- Reflecting woods and skies,-- Could comfort all our sighs. The mystery of things, Of dreams, philosophies, To which the mortal clings, That can unriddle these.-- What is ’t the water sings? What is ’t it promises?-- End to my miseries!