Poet Unknown

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
In worlds unknown.