The angels are stooping
 Above your bed;
 They weary of trooping
 With the whimpering dead.
 God's laughing in Heaven
 To see you so good;
 The Sailing Seven
 are gay with His mood.
 I sigh that kiss you,
 For I must own
 That I shall miss you
 When you have grown.

After the last few (mostly) sombre poems, here’s another one on yearning, yet a lot more cheerful. Anyone who’s seen a little one grow up will identify with the feeling of sweet loss when the child lets go of one’s finger and walks on its own.

There’s a more than adequate bio of Yeats with Poem #32.

— Vivek