There's an end to everything:

Birds in the trees, music,

Voices plangent and deep, sweet

Tempests flaring in the mind of man

Foreshadow that terrible realisation

That we too follow this same cliff path

On nights of luminosity and in the utter desolation

Of the day, when mother, father, lover, friend

Have swooned towards the moon in triumph

Or despair. Or when those steps we climbed

In childhood into the loneliness of dream

Creak and creak again like the echoes of a scream.

And nothing is as nothing seems

And all retains the insubstantiality of dream.