by: Helen Hunt Jackson
MORE POEMS BY HELEN HUNT JACKSON
- HAT 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 things 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.