To be the father of growing daughters is to understand something of what Yeats evokes with his imperishable phrase 'terrible beauty.' Nothing can make one so happily exhilarated or so frightened: it's a solid lesson in the limitations of self to realize that your heart is running around inside someone else's body. It also makes me quite astonishingly calm at the thought of death: I know whom I would die to protect and I also understand that nobody but a lugubrious serf can possibly wish for a father who never goes away.
Never give all the heart, for loveWill hardly seem worth thinking ofTo passionate women if it seemCertain, and they never dreamThat it fades out from kiss to kiss; For everything that's lovely isBut 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 enoughIf deaf and dumb and blind with love?He that made this knows all the cost, For he gave all his heart and lost.