Labour is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul. - William Butler Yeats

All hatred driven hence,
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self-delighting,
Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,
And that its own sweet will is Heaven’s will;
She can, though every face should scowl
And every windy quarter howl
Or every bellows burst, be happy still.

Odour of blood when Christ was slain
Made all platonic tolerance vain
And vain all Doric discipline.

Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled,
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.