"The lover tells of the Perfect Beauty"
by William Butler Yeats
O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed
eyes,
The poets laboring all their days
To build a perfect beauty in rhyme
And overthrown by a woman's gaze
And by the unlabouring brood of the skies:
And therefore my heart will bow, when dew
Is dropping sleep, until God burn time,
Before the unlabouring stars and you.
