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 on

to 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.

.

.