He Wishes For Any Cloth At All

I've been reading William Butler Yeats recently, whose poetry is so beautiful and perfect it almost makes me weep. In particular, his "He Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven" is heart-wrenchingly gorgeous. This is a conversation poem, written somewhat in response to Yeats.

My cupboard is empty;

I too lack the cloth of heaven,

But I was never taught

How dreams may be spun into thread.

I can give you nothing,

It is right and wise to leave me,

For this there is no blame;

But pray for me, that I may find

Some means of making cloth

And so be warmed at last,

Shielded as I dream.