I wish that the day were over,

The week, the month and the year;

Yet life is not such a burden

That I wish the end were near.

And my birthdays come so swiftly

That I meet them grudgingly:

Would it be so were I longing

For the life that is to be?

Nay: the soul, though ever reaching

For that which is out of sight,

Yet soars with reluctant motion,

Since there is no backward flight.