What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident? - William Butler Yeats

I thought of your beauty, and this arrow,
Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.
There's no man may look upon her, no man,
As when newly grown to be a woman,
Tall and noble but with face and bosom
Delicate in colour as apple blossom.
This beauty's kinder, yet for a reason
I could weep that the old is out of season.

"A king is but a foolish labourer
Who wastes his blood to be another's dream.

-from "Fergus and the Druid

Never had I more
Excited, passionate, fantastical
Imagination, nor an ear and eye
That more expected the impossible.