You are not born into a stale world. You are young
          in a young world that will bloom and burst
          countlessly before you find even one thing truly
          changed, let alone faded;
and if one born twenty thousand years from now,
          sighing, feels the world has grown unalterable
          and iron by simple, immense precedent, they
          would still be no less wrong than are we to fall
          for that ecclesiastic bluff that the world was
          born already dusking in the inane light of the
          very final afternoon,
for even if, sifting an echo from some chance wind, we
          discern the first song of the first bard,
or if, returned to earth some loud midnight by purple
          bolt comes to us a primordial dance epic still
          asmolder with deathless syncopation;
if by wild hunch and dread knack we decode a
          metabolic acrostic written on our heartbeats;
yes, even if by any such heliotrope we behold that the
          roots of all tongues are braided fast to the brain
          with one single etymon immortal and unbreakable,
we would be fools to feel we cannot burn with greater
          light than did those who first tore language out
          of chance and filth one hundred ages ago.