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.