Never Give All The Heart - W.B. Yeats

Another by Yeats (bio with first one), in sonnet form.  Good/great sonnets are such marvels of writing.  I've never managed to write even a mediocre one, as the structural and rhyming demands are, to me, like putting on a slightly-shrunk fitted-sheet on a bed.  I can pull, stretch and force the sheet over three corners but never the last one....
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Never Give All The Heart

Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that’s lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.
                                                                                      W. B. Yeats -  Irish

A Drinking Song - W.B. Yeats

What can one say about THE "name" in English-language literature (poetry, plays) of the last century, W.B. Yeats (1865-1939)?  Certainly more than I can (or will) here.  Without him, "modern" poetry in English and a revival in Celtic culture probably would not have occurred.  His plays, dealing mostly with Irish legends, were the chief reason for being awarded the 1923 Nobel Prize in Literature, but his important poetry, for which he is probably best known, came afterwards.  (Clicking here will take you to an online exhibition by the National Library of Ireland about his life and works.)  I've chosen this poem precisely because it is so unvarnished, undeniable, and easy to remember.   Be like a carpenter - "measure twice, cut once" - and choose wisely with whom you'll share the toast.   Use it more than once... and the listener will know.  And no amount of wine will remedy that. 
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A Drinking Song

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

                                                                      W. B. Yeats - Irish