At last I know—it’s on old ivory jars,
Glassed with old miniatures and garnered once with musk.   
I’ve seen those eyes like smouldering April stars
As carp might see them behind their bubbled skies
In pale green fishponds—they’re as green your eyes,   
   As lakes themselves, changed to green stone at dusk.

At last I know—it’s paned in a crystal hoop   
On powder-boxes from some dead Italian girl,
I’ve seen such eyes grow suddenly dark, and droop   
Their small, pure lids, as if I’d pried too far   
In finding you snared there on that ivory jar
   By crusted motes of rose and smoky-pearl.