| 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. |