What is that sacred well,
Wherein, as poets tell
(And they are wise),
Shut in its deeps fair Truth for ever lies?
My tongue is silent, but my thought replies—
“Your eyes!”
What are those queenly stars
That o’er the violet bars
Of sunset rise,
One in the wave, the other on the skies?
How near my lips the loving answer lies—
“Your eyes!”
And what is that clear hue,
That frank wide-open blue,
That still surprise,
When from the lake its fringe of shadow flies?
Low in my heart persistent echo cries—
“Your eyes!”
So many sights around!
Such musical soft sound
And witchery
Of airs that rock the blossom and the bee!
Yet nothing shines, or speaks, or sings for me
But she:
All things are shows of her;
And she, the interpreter,
Gliding above
The silent waters, or the sleepy grove,
Doth swiftly make this dead earth live and move
With love.
What if, in such a mood,
Her very womanhood
Should come in view,
With eyes thus bright, thus truthful, and thus blue?
Ah, would she halt and give my spirit true
Its due?