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Behold your eyes are in the stead
Of these dead,—
Pure seas of looks, with many a shore
Of worlds more;
Behold, instead of these poor moulds,
These mere casts
In some first clay—no stuff that holds
Love that lasts—
Why! life—that love; and then its fresh
Robe of flesh,
With—O what chords of sense that thrill
With love's will,
Unchecked by death or weariness,
Those dull foes
Of every feeling, more or less,
The world knows!
In place of all the glassy cheats—
Your true sweets,
—Of all the lives with which Death plays,
All the days
