I am thinking of love of a certain type, between lovers who are elemental. Fire seeking to burn, water seeking to touch, wind seeking travel, lover like earth, vast and full of secrets. We make our religion each day. To be always at the verge of destruction. And I think it was such a love the poet Yeats had for Maude Gonne. And this poem. And I have loved like this. And I am still here.
No Second Troy
William Butler YEATS
Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?