Minnaloushe creeps through the grass Alone, important and wise, And lifts to the changing moon His changing eyes. - William Butler Yeats

A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard
A voice singing on a May Eve like this,
And followed half awake and half asleep,
Until she came into the Land of Faery,
Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,
Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,
Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.
And she is still there, busied with a dance
Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood,
Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.

I gave what other women gave
That stepped out of their clothes.
But when this soul, its body off,
Naked to naked goes,
He it has found shall find therein
What none other knows, And give his own and take his own And rule in his own right; And though it loved in misery
Close and cling so tight, There’s not a bird of day that dare Extinguish that delight.

This melancholy London — I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually.