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Eyes

MY HEART is sick because of all the eyes

That look upon you drinkingly.

They almost touch you with their fever look!

keep your beauty like a mystic gem,

Clear-surfaced--give no fibre grain of hold

To those prehensile amorous bold eyes!

My heart is sick!

O love, let not my heart

Corrupt the flower of your liberty--

Go spend your beauty like the summer sky

That makes a radius of every glance,

And with your morning color light them all!

m
Written by
Max Eastman
1883-1969 / American
Lines·Words
12·80
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