All things tire of themselves

I was mentored for the first twenty or so years of my career by the playwright Sir Arnold Wesker. He was a very important figure in my life. We wrote a musical, a radio play, and several art songs together. He was always trying to get me to set one particular poem he'd written to music, but, as a twenty-something, I didn't understand it well enough to set to music. In my 30s, I allowed it to remain in a book on my shelf. When he died, I felt sad that I'd never carried out his great wish.

Many things have become very clear in the last few days. And dear Arnold's poem has suddenly made sense.

He mentored me in life and now he mentors me from the grave. Thank you, Arnold. You will forever be in my heart.

All things tire of themselves
Be comforted, be glad
Not only the singer's joy
But the demagogue's tongue
The revolutionary's fervour
All that makes love sad
And passion
Be comforted, be glad

Be comforted
That all things tire of themselves
For with recrimination, rancour,
Ease fierce longings for revenge
Small satisfactions of spite
Not only hope, despair also
And the night.
All tire of themselves
Be glad be comforted

Be comforted.
Though confidence falters
Holy grails fade
And sin.
Contempt withers
The sneer dissolves
Bored cynics expire.
Unhappiness wearies also
And ranters wear their shrillness thin
And things all things tire of themselves
And passion.
Be comforted and glad

Be comforted.
Though smiles fade
Aches weary
Weeping weeps itself to sleep.
Beloved melodies incessantly replayed
Collapse
Melt out of meaning
New words too loud and overused
Cease making sense
But silence, too
That tires of itself
The writing on the wall must speak.
Be comforted
All things all things
And passion

...

Only this knowledge remains:
That all tires of itself
All recreates
Nothing sustains
But knowing this is so.

Now go. Life waits.
Be glad be comforted