It is full summer now, the heart of June; Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir Upon the upland meadow where too soon The first red grapes will ripen for the wine. The land is full of life, the clover blooms, The song-sparrows sing from every spray, The yellow butterflies flit to and fro, And in the woods the partridge drums away. All Nature laughs in the bright sunshine; The brooks sing gaily as they run along, The trees are green and stately where they stand, And everything is glad except man. He toils from dawn to dark, from morn till night, He plods his weary way from day to day, He eats his meager meal, he drags his feet, He sleeps, and wakes to toil again. He is but an animal, a thing of flesh, He knows not why he toils nor what he toils for; He knows not what it is to be at rest, He knows not what it is to be at peace. He is born, he toils, he dies; that is all, He knows not whence he came nor whither he goes; He is a cog in the great machine, A slave to forces he cannot understand. He is but a part of the great whole, A drop of water in the mighty ocean, A grain of sand upon the beach; And yet he struggles and he strives, He strives against the tide, He fights with all his might and main To break the bonds that hold him fast, To throw off the yoke that weighs him down, To burst the chains that bind him fast. He knows not why he fights nor what he fights for, He knows not what it is to conquer or to yield; But still he fights, he cannot choice, For something drives him on and on, Something that he cannot understand. It is the will to live, the instinct to survive, The primal urge to propagate his kind; And so he fights and struggles on, Though weary, worn and old, Till at last he falls, and dies, And passes on his genes to the next generation, Bound to die, just as he did. Live, die, repeat; that is the cycle of life.
Audio: https://anchor.fm/louis030195/episodes/The-fantasy-of-eternal-spring-e1l6g16
Notes: https://brain.louis030195.com/Philosophy/Rationality/Death++%F0%9F%92%80#The+fantasy+of+eternal+spring
The fantasy of eternal spring
It is full summer now, the heart of June;
Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir
Upon the upland meadow where too soon
The first red grapes will ripen for the wine.
The land is full of life, the clover blooms,
The song-sparrows sing from every spray,
The yellow butterflies flit to and fro,
And in the woods the partridge drums away.
All Nature laughs in the bright sunshine;
The brooks sing gaily as they run along,
The trees are green and stately where they stand,
And everything is glad except man.
He toils from dawn to dark, from morn till night,
He plods his weary way from day to day,
He eats his meager meal, he drags his feet,
He sleeps, and wakes to toil again.
He is but an animal, a thing of flesh,
He knows not why he toils nor what he toils for;
He knows not what it is to be at rest,
He knows not what it is to be at peace.
He is born, he toils, he dies; that is all,
He knows not whence he came nor whither he goes;
He is a cog in the great machine,
A slave to forces he cannot understand.
He is but a part of the great whole,
A drop of water in the mighty ocean,
A grain of sand upon the beach;
And yet he struggles and he strives,
He strives against the tide,
He fights with all his might and main
To break the bonds that hold him fast,
To throw off the yoke that weighs him down,
To burst the chains that bind him fast.
He knows not why he fights nor what he fights for,
He knows not what it is to conquer or to yield;
But still he fights, he cannot choice,
For something drives him on and on,
Something that he cannot understand.
It is the will to live, the instinct to survive,
The primal urge to propagate his kind;
And so he fights and struggles on,
Though weary, worn and old,
Till at last he falls, and dies,
And passes on his genes to the next generation,
Bound to die, just as he did.
Live, die, repeat; that is the cycle of life.