HER EYES

by: Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)

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.

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