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.