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

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

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?