The quiet seems to have returned at last.
As celebrations fade into the past,
We are into the normal rhythms cast
Of life, and we can play again in time,
In common meters, old patterns of rhyme
That shape our thoughts that touch not the sublime,
But in the daily drudge again us mire.
Even now, though some may still aspire
To lofty goals, they towards them climb no higher
Than they already are, and many fall,
Demanded answer to quotidian call,
And such will be the fate of nearly all,
Though some few will succeed in their intent.
But more of us are otherwise long bent.
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