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George Gordon Byron - To M--
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Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
  With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
  Love, more than mortal, would be thine.

For thou art form`d so heavenly fair,
  Howe`er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
  That fatal glance forbids esteem

.When Nature stamp`d thy beauteous birth,
  So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear`d that, too divine for earth,
  The skies might claim thee for their own.

Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
  Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
  Within those once celestial eyes.

These might the boldest Sylph appall,
  When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;
  But who can dare thine ardent gaze?`

Tis said that Berenice`s hair,
    In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne`er permit thee there,
  Who wouldst so far outshine the seven.

For did those eyes as planets roll,
  Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:
E`en suns, which systems now control,
  Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.
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