The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. - William Butler Yeats

Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

My fiftieth year had come and gone,
I sat, a solitary man,
In a crowded London shop,
An open book and empty cup
On the marble table-top.
While on the shop and street I gazed
My body of a sudden blazed;
And twenty minutes more or less
It seemed, so great my happiness,
That I was blessed and could bless.

Jonathan Swift made a soul for the gentlemen of this city by hating his neighbor as himself.