And you would murmur tender words,
Forgiving me, because you were dead:
Nor would you rise and hasten away,
Though you have the will of wild birds,
But know your hair was bound and wound
About the stars and moon and sun.
— W. B. Yeats, from “He Wishes His Beloved Were Dead,” The Wind Among the Reeds. (Woodstock Books September 1994) Originally published in 1899,