Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
W.B. Yeats, in The Wild Swans at Coole
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Bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams
White woman that passion has worn
As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,
And with heart more old than the horn
That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:
White woman with numberless dreams,
I bring you my passionate rhyme.
W.B. Yeats, "A Poet to His Beloved", in The Wind Among the Reeds
Uma categoria! :)
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