Why should I blame her that she filled my days with misery. Or that she would have late. Thought to ignorant men most violent ways. Or hurled the little streets upon the great. Had they but courage equal to desire? What could of made her peaceful wit 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 one, being what she is? Was there another troy for her to burn? written by: William Butler Yests