All Things Will Die Poem by James McLain

Over the mountains is the sky.
One cloud after comes to be another.
Every heart may once when full.
Full cups in youth sang often merrily.
Yet all things here must first be born to die.
The dreams will cease to flow.
Lily will cease to grow.
The wind will cease to know.
The breast will labor to your touch to rise.
The mornings after glow.
From every thorn from every rose
must fall away, don't cry.
Of all that ever was in spring
it falls away and dies.