Waiting! For what? Shall I ever know?
Or shall the new years creep drowsily by
Till my death-day comes; shall I never know why
I was born, and must live out my life of woe?
Is the whole of my lifetime merely a pause
'Twixt my birth that was, and my death to be?
Must I always follow, and never be free?
Am I only effect? Can I never be cause?
Or am I but a link of the weariful chain
Of life, and the sequence of things gone by?
I am forced to live, for I cannot die,
But my life is empty and all in vain.
Yet sometimes I hear my spirit, elate
At the thought of the glorious deeds to be done,
Cry: "Strike! 'Tis the time!" But, in answer, one —
Shall I ever know who? — whispers: "Silence! Wait!"
It cannot be Hope, for her voice is sweet;
It is not Despair, for I know her well:
'Tis like the ceaseless drone of a knell,
And wearies the heart with monotonous beat.
Shall another voice ever whisper to me:
"Awake! 'Tis the hour! Go forward and fight!
Thy probation is ended, and impotent night
Has burst into day!" So shall set me free?
I know not, I know not; this only I dread,
That, ere that voice shall proclaim that hour.
Not only the will may be lost, but the power,
And I may be cold with the nameless dead.
