Love is the child of illusion and the parent of disillusion.
In the High Leaves of a Walnut
by Laurence Binyon
In the high leaves of a walnut,
On the very topmost boughs,
A boy that climbed the branching bole
His cradled limbs would house.
On the airy bed that rocked him
Long, idle hours he'd lie
Alone with white clouds sailing
The warm blue of the sky.
I remember not what his dreams were;
But the scent of a leaf's enough
To house me higher than those high boughs
In a youth he knew not of,
In a light that no day brings now
But none can spoil or smutch,
A magic that I felt not then
And only now I touch.