JOHN MASEFIELD
Since moons decay and suns decline, How else should end this life of mine? Water and saltness are not wine.
But in the darkest hour of night, When even the foxes peer for sight, The byre-cock crows, he feels the light.
So, in this water mixed with dust, The byre-cock spirit crowi* from trust That death will change because it must;
For all things change, the darkness changes, The wandering spirits change their ranges, The corn is gathered to the granges.
The corn is sown again, it grows; The stars burn out, the darkness goes; The rhythms change, they do not close.
They change, and we, who pass like foam, Like dust blown through the streets of Rome, Change ever, too, we have no home,
Only a beauty, only a power,
Sad in the fruit, bright in the flower,
Endlessly erring for its hour,
But gathering, as we stray, a sense
Of Life, so lovely and intense,
It lingers when we wander hence,
That those who follow feel behind Their backs, when all before is blind, Our joy, a rampart to the mind.
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