I CARE not for the azure eyes,
Which look not on their kindred skies
With all the holy sympathies
That only song can give--
Who love not stars and star-like flowers,
And people not the silent bowers
With dreamy forms in twilight hours,
That seem to breathe and live.

Gay trifler! though you smile be bright,
What is it but reflected light?
Within, the soul is dark as night,
And quenched the generous fire
That sheds a halo o'er the brow--
The wreath by which we genius know,
And see an angel here below,
In her who wakes the lyre.