THE ORB I like is not the one <br /> That dazzles with its lightning gleam; <br />That dares to look upon the sun, <br /> As though it challenged brighter beam. <br />That orb may sparkle, flash, and roll; <br /> Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly; <br />But not for me: I prize the soul <br /> That slumbers in a quiet eye. <br /> <br />There ’s something in its placid shade <br /> That tells of calm, unworldly thought; <br />Hope may be crown’d, or joy delay’d— <br /> No dimness steals, no ray is caught. <br />Its pensive language seems to say, <br /> “I know that I must close and die;” <br />And death itself, come when it may, <br /> Can hardly change the quiet eye. <br /> <br />There ’s meaning in its steady glance, <br /> Of gentle blame or praising love, <br />That makes me tremble to advance <br /> A word, that meaning might reprove. <br />The haughty threat, the fiery look, <br /> My spirit proudly can defy, <br />But never yet could meet and brook <br /> The upbraiding of a quiet eye. <br /> <br />There ’s firmness in its even light, <br /> That augurs of a breast sincere: <br />And, oh! take watch how ye excite <br /> That firmness till it yield a tear. <br />Some bosoms give an easy sigh, <br /> Some drops of grief will freely start, <br />But that which sears the quiet eye <br /> Hath its deep fountain in the heart.<br /><br />Eliza Cook<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-quiet-eye/
