In all we do, and hear, and see,
Is restless Toil and Van­ity.
While yet the rolling earth ab­ides,
Men come and go like ocean tides;

And ere one generation dies,
Another in its place shall rise;
That, sinking soon in­to the grave,
Others succeed, like wave on wave;

And as they rise, they pass away.
The sun arises every day,
And, hastening onward to the West,
He nightly sinks, but not to rest:

Returning to the east­ern skies,
Again to light us, he must rise.
And still the rest­less wind comes forth,
Now blowing keen­ly from the North;

Now from the South, the East, the West,
For ever changing, ne’er at rest.
The fountains, gush­ing from the hills,
Supply the ever-running rills;

The thirsty rivers drink their store,
And bear it roll­ing to the shore,
But still the ocean craves for more.
’Tis endless labor ever­ywhere!
Sound cannot sa­tis­fy the ear,

Light cannot fill the craving eye,
Nor riches half our wants sup­ply;
Pleasure but dou­bles fu­ture pain,
And joy brings sor­row in her train;

Laughter is mad, and reck­less mirth—
What does she in this wea­ry earth?
Should Wealth, or Fame, our Life em­ploy,
Death comes, our labor to de­stroy;

To snatch the un­tast­ed cup away,
For which we toiled so many a day.
What, then, remains for wretch­ed man?
To use life’s com­forts while he can,

Enjoy the blessings Heav’n bestows,
Assist his friends, for­give his foes;
Trust God, and keep His sta­tutes still,
Upright and firm, through good and ill;

Thankful for all that God has giv’n,
Fixing his firm­est hopes on Heav’n;
Knowing that earthly joys de­cay,
But hoping through the dark­est day.

Anne Brontë, Poems by
Currer, El­lis and Ac­ton Bell, 1846