Her eyes

That they are brown, no man will dare to say

He knows. And yet I think that no man's look

Ever those depths of light and shade forsook,

Until their gentle pain warned him away.

Of all sweet thing I know but one which may

Be likened to her eyes.

When, in deep nook

Of some green field, the water of a brook

Makes lingering, whirling eddy in its way,

Round soft drowned leaves; and in a flash of sun

They turn to gold, until the ripples run

Now brown, now yellow, changing as by some

Swift spell.

I know not with what body come

The saints. But this I know, my Paradise

Will mean the resurrection of her eyes.