*********** Eyes ***********
*****************************

By John Rollin Ridge

I sing of eyes, of woman's eyes,
A theme from earliest ages sung,
But which, till all of nature dies,
Shall ever hid the harp be strung.

There is the eye of sober gray,
Which seems to shadow forth regret,
As if the spirit mourned alway
It's stary hopes forever set.

There is the eye of hazel bright,
Which wins and dazzles where it falls,
Reviving with its showers of light
The happy bosom it enthralls.

There is the eye of tender blue,
Soft as the heaven at set of sun,
Which many deem is ever true,
And smiles on all but speaks to one.

There is the eye of darker hue,
Which rivals midnight on her throne;
Now softly bright as streams that through
The shady forests wander lone;

Now like a cloud that hides from sight
The beauty of the rolling spheres,
And flashes far with angry light,
Or sinking downwards melts to tears.

As sages loved in ancient days
To read the heavens when darkness fell,
So on those orbs of black we gaze,
And feel our inmost bosoms swell.

As lovely as the world's that lie
Reposing in the nights embrace,
Is the soft meaning of that eye,
And deeper than the depths of space!

I cease-for all description's vain,
Let each one choose the eye he likes,
That melts the heart or soothes the brain,
Or like the dreaded lightning strikes;

But as for me, I love those eyes,
No matter what their hues may be,
To which the hearts warm feelings rise
In overflowing love to me.

Alternate fount of light and tears,
Their smiles are sweet, their sadness too,
And I could Joy or grieve for years,
And those fond eyes might bid me do!