A Poet to His Beloved - by W.B. Yeats

I bring you with reverent hands, the books of my numberless dreams;

I bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams;
White woman that passion has worn
As the tide wears the dove-gray sands,
And with heart more old than the horn
That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:
White woman with numberless dreams
I bring you my passionate rhyme.



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