Mabel.

How could I e'er be able—
For roughest etching-tool in my blunt pharse—
To duly draw the errant charms of Mabel,
Or well appraise
A subject so unstable.

Warm lights in some sea-pool
In brown rock orbited are dull of ray
To those—the secret of her sweet misrule—
Which ever stray
From eyes so deep, so cool.

And so—and so—will this,
All this my eloquence not capture thee,
The treasure that my heart counts highest bliss.
—Ye laugh at me,
Fair lips I else would kiss.

—"Byrone."