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As to Eyes
Lady, better bards than I,
Poets of an elder day,
Seemed to love to versify
On “her eyes,” or blue or gray.
Poets of an elder day,
Seemed to love to versify
On “her eyes,” or blue or gray.
’T is an oft-recurrent theme
For the bards who rhapsodize;
Not a one but used to dream
Of the loveliness of eyes.
For the bards who rhapsodize;
Not a one but used to dream
Of the loveliness of eyes.
Shelley, Tennyson and Keats,
Swinburne, Byron, Moore and Burns—
All had visual conceits,
All had various optic yearns.
Swinburne, Byron, Moore and Burns—
All had visual conceits,
All had various optic yearns.
Far from me to mimimize
Elder, better bards, except
This: they spoke of lady’s eyes
Haunting them what time they slept.
Elder, better bards, except
This: they spoke of lady’s eyes
Haunting them what time they slept.
Envy I those troubadours.
I am such a helpless thrall,
Lady, when I think of yours,
I—I cannot sleep at all.
I am such a helpless thrall,
Lady, when I think of yours,
I—I cannot sleep at all.
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