Poems (Stephens)/The eye

by Eliza Jane Stephens

For works with similar titles, see The Eye.

THE EYE.

Within those depths how much we trace
Of earnest thought e'en when the face
 Is passionless and cold,
The will may do its utmost there,
The wily tongue as oft forbear,
 And yet the tale be told.

We read of hope, we lead of fear,
See eyes that weep, though not a tear
 Is coursing down the cheek,
Know well the sympathetic flow
Of feeling deep for others woe,
 The lips may never speak.

We read ambitions fitful strife,
Its secret cares that waste the life,
 Whatever be its aim,
Its disappointments stern and dread,
That bleach the hapless mortal's head
 Who seeks for wealth or fame.

Deceit with all her coward train,
But proves her labor lost and vain,
 She is no mistress there.
No art of her's can truly hide
The hateful glance of selfish pride,
 Or scorns disdainful stare.

When fiery anger fills the breast,
A look betrays the fierce unrest
 By which the soul is stirred,
More venom then those rays can dart
More fury kindle in the heart
 Than any taunting word.

We see the softened light, when love
The spirit's tenderness would prove,
 By beauty's potent charm.
So mild, so gently then they beam,
'Tis strange such orbs can ever gleam
 With aught that tells of harm.

Oh wondrous index, written page
Of all our thoughts from youth to age,
 A gift divinely given
This world were happier far I ween,
Did we but see them as they're seen
 By purer eyes in heaven.