Sitting here, letting my day go by without me and a patient old puppy at my feet still needing her morning walk, my fingers on the keyboard addicted to searching, hit upon a poem I found a long time ago. It is too long to share in its entirety but, if you have a mind to see the whole thing, it is easy enough to find when you know what to look for. The title is The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T.S. Eliot.
Here is the part that I just copied from the middle of it, or more toward the beginning, but I ramble … :
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.