I'm in a very Nineteen Century poetical mood lately. Sometimes I think these are bulbs I planted a long, long time ago that - for God knows why - are waking up and growing and flowering now. I suppose you never know what will happen when you major in English literature and listen to Garrison Keillor's A Prairie Home Companion on Saturday nights.
There are eyes I've met, the clearest blue
Shuttered tight against all storms that lose
The unguarded, open, and unfiltered light
That lose the simple reflection of delight
And rest dull and hard in returning gaze
Just another stranger in a darkened maze.
And there are those I've seen, of hazel,
Brown or green that hide behind a door
And furtively peek, frightened, and unsure
Like a child punished; sad and unassured
That never trust the eyes they long to see
And as quickly out, are just as quickly to retreat.
So few, so very few that let the light of day
Filter in, or inward light of night out shine
So very few that gaze without fear or shame
A very precious few, color for color, eye to eye
Like lantern boats that glimmer on a darkened sea
That meet and pass and know and remember me.