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.)
Charlotte Coyle Galleries: One · Two
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PAGE CREATED 2006.11.30