Little package, greater on the inside. I like the shorter Yeats. People who have too much on their minds must keep it at bay, or fall in a bay of disarray and contradiction in terms, although truth is involved.
The true measure of a poem's greatness is that the only words used are those necessary to convey the poet's message. Yeats could have spoiled this by describing the wine or his love. He chose not to, and we are eternally grateful for his brevity. To slake the dust with grape and to sigh at one's love, what more do we need?