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Seasons flow, springtime sliding into summer’s warming June,
And all men know that summer, at its turn, toward fall must go;
We cannot check the slow advance that takes us almost unawares
In graying tress and creased brow, the harbingers of winter’s stare.
A seed is made, and borne away on breezes lilting through the sky,
Is dropped, it knows not where, and falls to earth to die and bury there;
From death it sprouts, the roots descend, and tendrils rise toward air and light.
In darkness lies the seed, unconscious of approaching Paradise.
Whither shall I fly, and where descend? The Spirit carries
Me along, to His own ends. And someday I shall lie in death, beneath
The earth, and feel His call, and rise to Life that never ends,
Among the saints, reborn and whole in True Jerusalem.