|Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,|
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
WB Yeats had a fine understanding of unrequited love, gained through his long experience with Maude Gonne. Sometimes I think my dreams have been trampled as thin as tortillas.
For an asshole, I can sure get sentimental. I'm not even Irish.