Sonnet Cclxvii: Poem by George Henry Boker

Her eyes are of that pure and perfect grey
Which Pallas flashed upon the men of Greece,
While Hector shore their army as a fleece,
And mad Achilles by his galleys lay.
Deep-set and shy, they ever seem to play
With inner fancies; and a heart, at peace
With all creation, pulses its increase
Of joyful love through every tender ray.
These are the eyes whose planetary height
Rules o'er the horoscope I never tire
To cast myself, while fate foreruns delight;
Dreading alone that by their gentle fire,
My guilty self may be discerned aright,
Condemned, and driven from all my soul's desire.