"The Lake Isle of Innisfree" - W.B. Yeats
I love the "bee-loud glade": Innisfree is so quiet the bees are loud. Two words to invert quiet and loudness, setting Innisfree as far from clamor as Eden.
First I loved the first stanza all out of proportion, but I've rounded out. The middle is a love song to Innisfree with beautiful swooping down-up curves of sound, like swallows wheeling over the lake. "Peace comes dropping slow, dropping from the veils of the morning to [up!] where the cricket sings," again inverted where morning is the downnote and cricket-song night is the upnote. The last stanza beats softly like wavelets, heartbeats, remembrance of footsteps, the constant wish and promise that I will go to Innisfree. Each phrase ends slow and long in the final stanza; the distance breaks my heart.
It's always a wish and promise. Innisfree is not a place you can really go. I carry a vision of a hut in the desert, where the land is a thousand shades of gray and green and gold and rust, and the sky is vast.