chillout

There is no thing that dying, dies forever:

Nothing is so forespent

But it may somehow finally recapture

That first content,

Wrought of the frail and protoplasmic splendor

Of element.

There is no song, once sung, made still forever:

Never such hush profound

But somewhere in the fibers of creation

Under the ground

And over the light of stars in the summer heavens

Makes cosmic sound.

There is no love, once told, that dies completely:

Never such love has grown

But scatters seed producing in its likeness

From zone to zone:

Shaping the destiny of men and angels

poet unknown

From Loving and leaving the good life