I met a man whose eyes were like the sea.
Blue, and cold, and wrought with stormy froth;
They pierced me through like oceans northerly,
Or else they swallowed me in frightful wroth —
No — these are but of memory the pangs.
In truth they were a dull and mottled blue,
As sky upon a dreary day that hangs
Above a down, all fog-encrusted through.
Nay still — they were not quite so drab as that.
Does conscience make of memory the thrall?
Did he (I must now ask), that man who sat
Upon that chair, have eyes of blue… at all?