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 pa**ed
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