WHILE I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes, <br />My heart would brim with dreams about the times <br />When we bent down above the fading coals <br />And talked of the dark folk who live in souls <br />Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees; <br />And of the wayward twilight companies <br />Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content, <br />Because their blossoming dreams have never bent <br />Under the fruit of evil and of good: <br />And of the embattled flaming multitude <br />Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame, <br />And, like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name, <br />And with the clashing of their sword-blades make <br />A rapturous music, till the morning break <br />And the white hush end all but the loud beat <br />Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet.<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-some-i-have-talked-with-by-the-fire/
