W. B. Yeats

welcome old friend,

come in from the cold

and rest awhile,

I recognize your voice,

it is one I have heard

many times before,

the accent was a

little different then,

from what it is now,

but still,

it is the same;

we have talked often,

you and I,

during that soft

and painful transition,

as I tried to hold on

to the dark and dying night,

while you patiently waited

for the pale morning dawn;

you must tell me old friend,

have you found that precious

light of a new day,

for which you waited

and searched

for so long?

ah well;

nor could I

hang onto the darkness,

but what difference

does it make?

it is in the trying

that matters most;

you and I

were never born,

to live in the black

or the white;

it is the cracks in between,

where we belong.

.

.