Vapor of vapors, everything is vapor; What remains from all our work beneath the sun? A generation passes, another one is coming, While the earth keeps standing where it stood. The sun goes down and rises to its labor; The wind turns south, then circles to the north. Every river runs into the sea, Yet the sea is never filled. All things are weary beyond our full explaining; The eye is never satisfied with seeing, The ear is never filled with what it hears. What has been will come again; What was done will yet be done. No one can point beneath these skies And say, “This thing is wholly new.” Those before us fade from memory; Those who follow will be forgotten too. I gave my heart to knowledge and to wisdom, To understand the work beneath the heavens. I learned that crooked things resist our straightening, And what is missing cannot simply be numbered. Much wisdom opens wider rooms of sorrow; Greater knowledge carries greater grief.