And her hair was a folded flower And the quiet of love in her feet. - William Butler Yeats

Irish poets, earn your trade,
Sing whatever is well made,
Scorn the sort now growing up
All out of shape from toe to top,
Their unremembering hearts and heads
Base-born products of base beds.

You say, as I have often given tongue
In praise of what another's said or sung,
'Twere politic to do the like by these;
But was there ever a dog that praised his fleas?

But is there any comfort to be found?
Man is in love and loves what vanishes,
What more is there to say?