Song, as you explain it, is not passion, not striving for some end at last attained; song is Being. Easy for gods to fashion. But when shall we be? And when will he bend the earth and stars upon our being? Youth, it is not that you are in love; although the voice bursts your mouth open, you must find how to forget your rash song. That will go. It is another breath that sings the truth. A breath round nothing. A gust in the god. A wind.

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