 | The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod |  |
94
LINES
I GAZE INTO THOSE QUIET EYES
I gaze into those quiet eyes,
But see no passion there—
They wear the hue of winter skies,
As still and coldly clear.
It may be they are beauteous books,
With noble meanings fraught—
But I prefer a few sweet looks
To worlds on worlds of thought.
But see no passion there—
They wear the hue of winter skies,
As still and coldly clear.
It may be they are beauteous books,
With noble meanings fraught—
But I prefer a few sweet looks
To worlds on worlds of thought.
I know no sounds that fitly mate
The music of thy lips—
But then it carries so much weight
The music always trips.
I grant that every phrase you speak
Is rich with wondrous lore,
But like your sister's blushing cheek
And tender silence more.
The music of thy lips—
But then it carries so much weight
The music always trips.
I grant that every phrase you speak
Is rich with wondrous lore,
But like your sister's blushing cheek
And tender silence more.
And wrapt in dreams of high desire,
And dead to common things,
You seem just fitted to inspire
A poet's visionings;
But while your spirit seems unriven
By one sweet earthly care,
You seem so very ripe for heaven,
I wish that you were there.
And dead to common things,
You seem just fitted to inspire
A poet's visionings;
But while your spirit seems unriven
By one sweet earthly care,
You seem so very ripe for heaven,
I wish that you were there.
| The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod | |