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. w7nwg5ez0sDjVnbLjh+kvPeXn00Yx3FGMdrLECIQxj6eQ167TnXySAVyjpwQKfHx