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,

and you patiently waited

for the pale morning dawn,

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.

.

.