Like a long-legged fly upon the stream His mind moves upon silence. - William Butler Yeats

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep. . . .

Hearts are not to be had as a gift, hearts are to be earned.

I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.