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