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

I am content to live it all again
And yet again, if it be life to pitch
Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch,
A blind man battering blind men;
Or into that most fecund ditch of all,
The folly that man does
Or must suffer, if he woos
A proud woman not kindred of his soul.

There are no strangers, only friends you have not met yet.

But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.