O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes.   
The poets labouring all their days           
To build a perfect beauty in rhyme                   
Are overthrowned 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.    

——William Butler Yeats

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