He is that great void we must enter, calling to one another on our way in the direction from which he blows. What matter if we should never arrive to breed or to winter in the climate of our conception? Enough we have been given wings and a needle in the mind to respond to his bleak north. There are times even at the Pole when he, too, pauses in his withdrawal so that it is light there all night long. - R.S. Thomas, Collected Later Poems, 1988-2000, pg. 122.