Charlotte Coyle Gallery Three

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.

-Yeats, “He Tells of the Perfect Beauty” (1899).

(Click to enlarge.)

You are cordially invited to visit:

PAGE CREATED 2006.11.30