I wish I could write like this.

[laughingphoenix]

William Butler Yeats. b. 1865

862. Where My Books go

ALL the words that I utter,
And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad heart is, 5
And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
Storm-darken'd or starry bright.