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, 'Round which the mortal clings, That can unriddle these.— What is't the water sings? What is't it promises?— End to all miseries!