A man moving through the woods thinking by feeling.
The orchestra up in the trees, the heart below.
The music hurrying sometimes, but always returning to quiet.
There is somehow a pleasure in the loss.
Never again. Never bodied again. Again the never.
A humming beauty in the silence.
The having been. Having had. And the man
knowing all of him will come to an end.
–lines from Jack Gilbert's "After Love."
