HE TELLS OF THE PERFECT BEAUTY
 
 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.