Sunset, mid-July - the failing light
Salutes a sway-backed cedar on the lawn
And liquefies the words I thought to write:
Not all nights are followed by a dawn,

And not all hurts can ever be put right.
The glory of the world, which sick men mourn
As life leaks out of them, remains as bright
As one the day each living thing was born.

Nor can we stem the tide [bad word] night - 
No man, no cedar, oak or ash or thorn.
Not all hurts can ever be put right,
And not all nights are followed by a dawn.