BENEATH the sunshine of thine eyes,
Those meaner doubts that me torment,
Fly far, as summer cloud-rack flies,
When Iris' golden bow is bent.
'T is as though the skies should darken
When away thou turn'st thy glances;
But while to my song thou'lt hearken,
Swift I pour my happy fancies.
Give, I pray thee, still thus give me
Sun, and sky, and life together,
Then, in sooth, I'll prove this to thee, -
"Loving eyes make pleasant weather."