O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes,The poets labouring all their days

To build a perfect beauty in rhyme

Are 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. B7D1n+ZbJGOKhYchwmlowoeNGnbB4mi65Y2Vr5Bp1MPN/z69LBrt0xdlh0Orc/WH