The Heart Of The Woman – William Butler Yeats

O WHAT to me the little room 

That was brimmed up with prayer and rest; 

He bade me out into the gloom, 

And my breast lies upon his breast. 

O what to me my mother’s care, 

The house where I was safe and warm; 

The shadowy blossom of my hair 

Will hide us from the bitter storm. 

O hiding hair and dewy eyes, 

I am no more with life and death, 

My heart upon his warm heart lies, 

My breath is mixed into his breath.

The Indian To His Love – William Butler Yeats

THE island dreams under the dawn 

And great boughs drop tranquillity; 

The peahens dance on a smooth lawn, 

A parrot sways upon a tree, 

Raging at his own image in the enamelled sea. 

Here we will moor our lonely ship 

And wander ever with woven hands, 

Murmuring softly lip to lip, 

Along the grass, along the sands, 

Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands: 

How we alone of mortals are 

Hid under quiet boughs apart, 

While our love grows an Indian star, 

A meteor of the burning heart, 

One with the tide that gleams, the wings that gleam 

and dart, 

The heavy boughs, the burnished dove 

That moans and sighs a hundred days: 

How when we die our shades will rove, 

When eve has hushed the feathered ways, 

With vapoury footsole by the water’s drowsy blaze.

When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent – William Shakespeare

Sonnet 30:
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 

I summon up remembrance of things past, 

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 

And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste: 

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 

For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night, 

And weep afresh love’s long since cancelled woe, 

And moan the expense of many a vanished sight: 

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, 

And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er 

The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan, 

Which I new pay as if not paid before. 

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 

All losses are restored and sorrows end.

Sonnets I – William Shakespeare

SHALL I compare thee to a Summer’s day? 

Thou art more lovely and more temperate: 

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 

And Summer’s lease hath all too short a date: 

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 

And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; 

And every fair from fair sometime declines, 

By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d: 

But thy eternal Summer shall not fade 

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; 

Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, 

When in eternal lines to time thou growest: 

   So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 

   So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

When I Consider Everything That Grows – William Shakespeare

Sonnet Xv:

When I consider everything that grows 

Holds in perfection but a little moment, 

That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows 

Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; 

When I perceive that men as plants increase, 

Cheered and check’d even by the selfsame sky, 

Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, 

And wear their brave state out of memory; 

Then the conceit of this inconstant stay 

Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, 

Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay 

To change your day of youth to sullied night; 

And all in war with Time for love of you, 

As he takes from you, I engraft you new.