Boxing up all manner of things,
Propositions crammed in boxes,
Labeled and abstracted well,
Taped closed in all manner of reason,
Contracted to their meager symbols,
Implication and necessity split at seams,
Diagnosed with a case of severe rigor in their application.

Last year's self is lost like vapour,
In seconds I am not the same,
What shall I do, my footing paper,
Am I built up or down by time,
The trees are taller than last year,
The sky is gone and shuffled new,
The mud is slipped, the grass is clear,
What shall I do, what shall I do?
A calling on the wind it comes,
Unchanging, sweeter morning dew,
Great melody for which all things run,
What blessed tune, what blessed tune!

It's Him, He's here, the Ground of Old,
He remembers me, all the stories told.