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- HE TELLS OF THE PERFECT BEAUTY
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- 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.
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