It’s not true that life is one damn thing after another – it’s one damn thing over and over.
She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.