My hand, a little raised, might press a star
Where I may look, the frosted peaks are spun
So shaped before Olympus was begun
Spanned each to each, now, by a silver bar
Thus to face Beauty have I traveled far
But now, as if around my heart were run
Hard, lacing fingers, so I stand undone
Of all my tears, the bitterest these are

Who humbly followed Beauty all her ways
Begging the brambles that her robe had passed
Crying her name in corridors of stone
That day shall know his weariedest of days
When Beauty, still and suppliant at last
Does not suffice him, once they are alone