WHEN the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide; <br />When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay; <br />Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way <br />Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side, <br />The vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kedron stream; <br />We will bend down and loosen our hair over you, <br />That it may drop faint perfume, and be heavy with dew, <br />Lilies of death-pale hope, roses of passionate dream.<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-travail-of-passion/
