We never left the place where we were born,

Have only lived one day, but every day,

Have walked a thousand miles yet only worn

The grass between our work and home away,

Lonely we were, though never left alone,

The solitude familiar to the poor

Is feeling that the family next door,

The way it talks, eats, dresses, loves, and hates,

Is indistinguishable from one’s own.

(Then)

Tonight for the first time the prison gates

Have opened.

Music and sudden light

Have interrupted our routine tonight,

And swept the filth of habit from our hearts,

O, here and now our endless journey starts.

Wystan Hugh Auden (1907-73), For the Time Being.