Love, the light falls,
And as would phosphorescent gems that, after night falls,
Are alone light,
Your blue eyes seem to glow with what must be their own light:
Are there dual lights?
For nothing, till they phosphoresce, suggests the cool lights
That such stones store,
So much more lunar than their sunlit hues, their own store
Of cool hues is;
And if you ask me which, of such responsive blues, is
More my liking,
Love, with different blues for every hour striking,
How decide that—
And how precipitate of me, if I replied, “That!”?
And as would phosphorescent gems that, after night falls,
Are alone light,
Your blue eyes seem to glow with what must be their own light:
Are there dual lights?
For nothing, till they phosphoresce, suggests the cool lights
That such stones store,
So much more lunar than their sunlit hues, their own store
Of cool hues is;
And if you ask me which, of such responsive blues, is
More my liking,
Love, with different blues for every hour striking,
How decide that—
And how precipitate of me, if I replied, “That!”?
