A Rondel.

Her eyes are as false lights that shining gleam.
And luring, beckon storm-tost men with bitter cries
To death : Yet wondrous pure and true they seem,
Her eyes.

Poor witless wights that wist not that he dies
And leaves his bones a-bleaching by the ghastly stream.
Who trusteth the deep light that in them lies.

Their flame hath power to draw with piteous scream
An angel from the very courts of Paradise,
And yet they might a soul from Hell redeem—
Her eyes.

L. L.