Skip to main content
Is it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm?
to be tossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful joy?
All things rush on, they stop not,
they look not behind, no power can hold them back,
they rush on.
Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music,
seasons come dancing and pass away —
colors, tunes, and perfumes pour in endless cascades
in the abounding joy that scatters and gives up and
dies every moment.
Rate this poem
No votes yet