Dear Doctor, I have read your play, / Which is a good one in its way, - / Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, / And drenches handkerchiefs like towels.

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes

Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift / My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift.

Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, And love than either; and there would arise, A something in them which was not desire, But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul, Which struggled through and chansten'd down the whole.

With eyes that look'd into the very soul-- . . . . Bright--and as black and burning as coal.

For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be