The softest eyes look out from under,
Blackest water fall from heights,
Start from the head and downwards plunder,
Guarding back those lovely eyes.
I reach my hand to touch thereafter
Any trace of his mind yet,
But such an act must spell disaster,
Such is the way his mind is set,
The backward steps that many flatter,
The offered ears that many fold
The smallest ripples are all that matter,
Yet often those fears make summer cold.
Then whence do flying rivers come?
That bear blue blossoms in its stream
Perhaps I can lend him one blue feather?
So he’ll be patched to fly his dream.
In many ways, I reach for farther
Of course, these things, I would endeavour:
Over the cuttings and wide past the harbour,
To sparkle those eyes that look out from under.