II.

With wayward thoughts her eyes are bright, Like shiftings of the northern-light, Hither, thither, swiftly glance they, In a mazy twining dance they, Like ripply lights the sunshine weaves, Thrown backward from a shaken nook, Below some tumbling water-brook, On the o'erarching platan-leaves, All through her glowing face they flit, And rest in their deep dwelling-place, Those fathomless blue eyes of hers, Till, from her burning soul re-lit, While her upheaving bosom stirs, They stream again across her face And with such hope and glory fill it, Death could not have the heart to chill it. Yet when their wild light fades again, I feel a sudden sense of pain, As if, while yet her eyes were gleaming, And like a shower of sun-lit rain Bright fancies from her face were streaming, Her trembling soul might flit away As swift and suddenly as they.