O when may it suffice? That is heaven's part, our part To murmur name upon name. - William Butler Yeats

The years like great black oxen tread the world,
And God the herdsman goads them on behind,
And I am broken by their passing feet.

Some may have blamed you that you took away
The verses that could move them on the day
When, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blind
With lightning, you went from me, and I could find
Nothing to make a song about but kings,
Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten things
That were like memories of you--but now
We'll out, for the world lives as long ago;
And while we're in our laughing, weeping fit,
Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit.
But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone,
My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.

If soul may look and body touch,
Which is the more blest?