...and pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun. - William Butler Yeats

And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out...

I would mould a world of fire and dew
With no one bitter, grave, or over wise,
And nothing marred or old to do you wrong.

My Soul. Why should the imagination of a man
Long past his prime remember things that are
Emblematical of love and war?
Think of ancestral night that can,
If but imagination scorn the earth
And intellect is wandering
To this and that and t'other thing,
Deliver from the crime of death and birth.