"Turning tides, their regularities!

What is the heart, that it ever was afraid,

Knowing as it must know the spring's release,

Shining heart, heart constant as a tide?

Omnipresent, imperturbable

Is the life that death springs from.

And complaint is wrong, the slightest complaint at all,

Now that the rye crop waves beside the ruins."

-Seamus Heaney