A Poet to His Beloved
| I bring you with reverent hands |
| The books of my numberless dreams, |
| White woman that passion has worn |
| As the tide wears the dove-grey sands, |
| And with heart more old than the horn |
| That is brimmed from the pale fire of time: |
| White woman with numberless dreams, |
| I bring you my passionate rhyme. |
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