While death and darkness girdle me
I grope for immortality.
Sombre and rich, the skies;
Great glooms, and starry plains.
Gently the night wind sighs;
Else a vast silence reigns.
Yet, when the city sleeps;
When all the cries are still:
The stars and heavenly deeps
Work out a perfect will.
Yeats, you need ten years in the library, but I have need of ten years in the wilderness.
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