This melancholy London. I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing … - William Butler Yeats

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

Only God, my dear,
Could love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.

Her Triumph

I did the dragon's will until you came
Because I had fancied love a casual
Improvisation, or a settled game
That followed if I let the kerchief fall:
Those deeds were best that gave the minute wings
And heavenly music if they gave it wit;
And then you stood among the dragon-rings.
I mocked, being crazy, but you mastered it
And broke the chain and set my ankles free,
Saint George or else a pagan Perseus;
And now we stare astonished at the sea,
And a miraculous strange bird shrieks at us.

I will make rigid my roots and branches. It is not now my turn to burst into leaves and flowers.