  'Tis played with eyes; one uttered word Would cast the game away. As silent as a sailing bird, The shift and change of play. So many eyes to me are dear, So many do me bless; The hazel, deep as deep wood-mere Where leaves are flutterless; The brown that most bewildereth With dusking, golden play Of shadows like betraying breath From some shy, hidden day; The black whose torch is ever trimmed, Let stars be soon or late; The blue, a morning never dimmed, Opposing Heaven to fate; That hold horizon rain; Or when, steel-darkling, stoic-wise, They bring the gods again; And wavelit eyes of nameless glow, Fed from far-risen streams; But oh, the eyes, the eyes that know The silent game of dreams! Three times I've played. Once 'twas a child, Lap-held, not half a year From Heaven, looked at me and smiled, And far I went with her. Out past the twilight gates of birth, And past Time's blindfold day, Beyond the star-ring of the earth, We found us room to play. And once a woman, spent and old With unavailing tears, Who from her hair's down-tangled fold Shook out the grey-blown years, And lifted eyes—what themes! I could not pass, I sat me down To play the game of dreams. And once ... a poet's eyes they were, Though earth heard not his strain; And since he went no eyes can stir My own to play again. |
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