I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above; those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.

Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.

I bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams.

I went out to the hazel wood
because a fire was in my head
cut and peeled a hazel wand
and hooked a berry to a thread
and when white moths were on the wing
and moth-like stars were flickering out
I dropped the berry in a stream,
and caught a little silver trout....


(Song of Wandering Aengus)

How far away the stars seem, and how far
Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!

What can be explained is not poetry.