The soul of man is like to water;
⁠⁠From Heaven it cometh,
⁠⁠To Heaven it riseth,
And then returneth to earth,
⁠⁠For ever alternating.
⁠⁠Then foameth brightly,
⁠⁠In cloud-waves rolling,
⁠⁠O'er polished rocks.
⁠⁠Then tranquil flowing,
⁠⁠It wandereth, hiding,
Soft murmuring to depths below it.
Over scrags from the steep projecting
Falls it all roaring, foaming, step-like,
⁠⁠⁠Far downward.
⁠⁠⁠Then, level flowing.
⁠Creeps to the meadow away:
⁠And in the glassy sea
Gaze all the planets at their fair faces.

Wind is to wavelet tenderest lover:
Wind from the deep tears foam-crested billows.
Soul of man mortal, how art thou like water!
Fate of man mortal, how art thou like wind!