Don’t scream at me for saying
You should’ve listened to the things I said
Don’t blame me for mistaking
a broken promise for a place to rest

and, if i keep on trying
then, you’ll just keep on lying

i’d rather go around and
cry out then take a chance and fly away
i’d rather chase all the memories
and put the eager dreams to rest

and, don’t say i cut your rope then
just leave, i left the door wide open

i kill the time
graphite and rubber
a place to not get stuck, there
i fell just fine
although disorder
has left an open road there
i’m falling i’m falling

(trecho do poema “Burnt Norton”, Secção 4, T.S. Elliot)
Time and the bell have buried the day,
The black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?
Chill Fingers of yew be curled
Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing
Has answered light to light,
and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.