no man is an island, entire to themselves,
but a piece of the whole, a part of the cloth,
a chance to grasp the fraying strands
and turn a flag from the scraps—
yes! what ragged beauty is that quilt,
sewn from the human heart,
righteous red and softened gold
and plaid abundant in the fold!
ah, that lucky soul! he who walks in step
and sits in the company of fools,
and whose delight is all the strands!
they are the new wineskin,
the elder's cloak,
the shade upon the hill:
their leaf never withers,
and their soul finds its rest