Long time he lay upon the sunny hill, To his father's house below securely bound. - Edwin Muir

There is a road that turning always
Cuts off the country of Again.
Archers stand there on every side
And as it runs time's deer is slain
And lies where it has lain.

They do not live in the world,
Are not in time and space.
From birth to death hurled
No word do they have, not one
To plant a foot upon,
Were never in any place.

The world's great day is growing late,
Yet strange these fields that we have planted
So long with crops of love and hate.