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.
Return to the William Butler Yeats Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; He Thinks Of His Past Greatness When A Part Of The Constellations Of Heaven