Midsummer

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Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost,
No birth, identity, form -- no object of the world.
Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing;
Appearance must not foil, nor shifted sphere confuse thy brain.
Ample are time and space -- ample the fields of Nature.
The body, sluggish, aged, cold -- the embers left from earlier fires,
The light in the eye grown dim, shall duly flame again;
The sun now low in the west rises for mornings and for noons continual;
To frozen clods ever the spring's invisible law returns,
With grass and flowers and summer fruits and corn.


(From Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman)


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