To my eyes thou'rt of all the most fair.
They pass, one by one,
Like waves of the sea,
That say to the Sun,
"See, how fair we can be."
But where's the light like thine,
In sun or shade to shine?
No--no, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee,
Nothing like thee.
Oft, of old, without farewell or warning,
Beauty's self used to steal from the skies;
Fling a mist round her head, some fine morning,
And post down to earth in disguise;
But, no matter what shroud
Around her might be,
Men peeped through the cloud,
And whispered, "'Tis She."
So thou, where thousands are,
Shinest forth the only star,--
Yes, yes, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee,
Nothing like thee.
KEEP THOSE EYES STILL PURELY MINE.
Keep those eyes still purely mine,
Tho' far off I be:
When on others most they shine,
Then think they're turned on me.
Should those lips as now respond
To sweet minstrelsy,
When their accents seem most fond,
Then think they're breathed for me.
Make what hearts thou wilt thy own,
If when all on thee
Fix their charmed thoughts alone,
Thou think'st the while on me.
HOPE COMES AGAIN.
Hope comes again, to this heart long a stranger,
Once more she sings me her flattering strain;
But hush, gentle syren--for, ah, there's less danger
In still suffering on, than in hoping again.
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