Those true eyes Too pure and too honest in aught to disguise The sweet soul shining through them. - Robert Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Earl of Lytton

Unseen hands delay
The coming of what seems close in ken,
And, contrary, the moment when we say
"'Twill never come!" comes on us even then.

Who can undo
What time hath done? who can win back the wind?
Beckon lost music from a broken lute?
Renew the redness of a last year's rose?
Or dig the sunken sunset from the deep?

'Twas a hand
White, delicate, dimpled, warm, languid, and bland.
The hand of a woman is often, in youth, Somewhat rough, somewhat red, somewhat graceless in truth;
Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm,
Or as sorrow has cross'd the life-line in its palm.