Into the Twilight
Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn, Come clear of the nets of wrong and right; Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight, Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
Your mother Eire is always young, Dew ever shining and twilight grey; Though hope fall from you and love decay, Burning in Hres of a slanderous tongue.
Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill: For there the mystical brotherhood of sun and moon and hollow and wood And river and stream work out their will;
And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight; And love is less kind than the grey twilight, And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.
W. B. Yeats