Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire, <br />With bright, but mild affection shine: <br />Though they might kindle less desire, <br />Love, more than mortal, would be thine. <br /> <br />For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, <br />Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, <br />We must admire, but still despair; <br />That fatal glance forbids esteem. <br /> <br />When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, <br />So much perfection in thee shone, <br />She fear'd that, too divine for earth, <br />The skies might claim thee for their own. <br /> <br />Therefore, to guard her dearest work, <br />Lest angels might dispute the prize, <br />She bade a secret lightning lurk, <br />Within those once celestial eyes. <br /> <br />These might the boldest Sylph appall, <br />When gleaming with meridian blaze; <br />Thy beauty must enrapture all; <br />But who can dare thine ardent gaze? <br /> <br />'Tis said that Berenice's hair, <br />In stars adorns the vault of heaven; <br />But they would ne'er permit thee there, <br />Who wouldst so far outshine the seven. <br /> <br />For did those eyes as planets roll, <br />Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: <br />E'en suns, which systems now control, <br />Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-m-2/
