THE ROSE IN THE DEEPS OF HIS HEART, William Butler Yeats

All things uncomely and broken,
all things worn-out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway,
the creak of a lumbering cart,

The heavy steps of the ploughman,
splashing the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms
a rose in the deeps of my heart.

The wrong of unshapely things
is a wrong too great to be told;
I hunger to build them anew
and sit on a green knoll apart,

With the earth and the sky and the water,
remade, like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms
a rose in the deeps of my heart.

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT, Thomas Moore (1779 - 1852)

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
...And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air
...To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear,
When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear;
...And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
...I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.