Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor. - John Keats

How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more Beautiful than Beauty’s self.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers.

And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?