Love, the vault tints
Your eyes, and, as a painter’s undertones tint all tints
She then lays on,
Their azure is a ground these passing clouds paint greys on:
What’s your true tone?
For how, of eyes a cloud tints grey, not doubt their blue tone
Was the vault’s, too?
And if, with no one color I can judge them false to,
I misgloss them,
Love, remember that, of all the shades that cross them,
You yourself view
Just one – the one your mirror makes appear their self-hue.