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.
— W.B. Yeats, “Aedh tells of the perfect Beauty,” Woodstock Books. (September 1, 1994) Originally published December 1899.