Time to rest

It is too late at night
to write poems about every song.
Let this, then, be the last,
or rather the promise of other days to come.

We find in life so many things,
so many songs,
that for a time they must suffice
as poems for themselves.

I am content with this;
so long as the heart be open,
and the mind, willing,
to grasp the unending nature of beauty.

For it is in the "finality" of human thought
that all terrible things begin.