The Author William Butler Yeats

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.


facebook share button twitter share button google plus share button tumblr share button reddit share button email share button share on pinterest pinterest

Create a library and add your favorite stories. Get started by clicking the "Add" button.
Add He Tells Of The Perfect Beauty to your own personal library.

It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.