“I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.”

—  W.B. Yeats

The Song Of Wandering Aengus http://poetry.poetryx.com/poems/1690/
The Wind Among the Reeds (1899)

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W.B. Yeats photo
W.B. Yeats 255
Irish poet and playwright 1865–1939

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