Those eyes that hold the hand of every heart,
That hand that holds the heart of every eye,
That wit that goes beyond all nature's art,
The sense too deep for wisdom to descry;
That eye, that hand, that wit, that heavenly sense
Doth shew my only mistress' excellence.
O eyes that pierce into the purest heart,
O hands that hold the highest thoughts in thrall,
O wit that weighs the depth of all desart,
O sense that shews the secret sweet of all,
The heaven of heavens with heavenly powers preserve thee!
Love but thyself and give me leave to serve thee.
To serve, to live, to look upon those eyes,
To look, to live to kiss that heavenly hand,
To sound that wit that doth amaze the wise,
To know that sense no sense can understand,
To understand that all the world may know
Such wit, such sense, such eyes, hands, there are no mo.
--Nicholas Breton
By this he knew she wept with waking eyes:
That, at his hand's light quiver by her head,
The strange low sobs that shook their common bed
Were called into her with a sharp surprise,
And strangely mute, like little gasping snakes,
Dreadfully venomous to him. She lay
Stone-still, and the long darkness flowed away
With muffled pulses. Then, as midnight makes
Her giant heart of Memory and Tears
Drink the pale drug of silence, and so beat
Sleep's heavy measure, they from head to feet
Were moveless, looking through their dead black years,
By vain regret scrawled over the blank wall.
Like sculptured effigies they might be seen
Upon their marriage-tomb, the sword between;
Each wishing for the sword that severs all.
--George Meredith