ART  MUSIC  POETRY

The setting sun tomorrow rises;
   The summer's green each year renews.
While some things change to different guises,
   Nothing in nature we chance to lose:

The moon each month in thirty days
   Returns to its each separate phase;
Water lost falls back as rain,
   And grass if cut grows high again.

Such things as these did nowhere meet
   An end for us to see;
The stars, the same, alike repeat:
   What is...can't cease to be.

And if some things appear to die,
   Their different guise escapes the eye;
Each thing thought gone, not noticed, stays
   As does the moon...in darkest phase.