In the midst of life I found myself in a dark wood
alone, and palely loitering,
and wandering
down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind
I cried
not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
even if
April is the cruelest month
and this is
no country for old men,
where
all is seared with trade, bleared, smeared, with toil;
where
things fall apart, the center cannot hold;
I will not
go gentle into that good night.

I, being poor, have only my dreams,
these fragments I have shored against my ruins.
But
when I consider how my light is spent,
then on the shores of the dark world I stand alone and think—
when, when, Peace, will you, Peace?

Where might this music be, in the air or the earth?
Darkling I listen:
love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.
There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
Aye on the shores of darkness there is light,
and morning, on the brown brink eastward, springs.