I.

Two miracles are thy blue eyes, Haughty or tender; Robbing our Andalusian skies Of half their splendor.

Celestial eyes of heaven’s own hue, Twin thrones of glory, Whose glances every day subdue New territory.

Blue were the waters and the skies Of happy Eden; And blue should be a Christian’s eyes, Matron or maiden.

By heaven those peerless orbs of blue To thee were given, And all the mischief that they do Is known in heaven.

I thought thy blue eyes beacons fair,— O treacherous seeming; O treacherous waves of golden hair, That wrecked my dreaming!

Two saints the blue eyes seemed to me That wrought my ruin: Who would have thought that saints could be A soul’s undoing?