O praise me not with thy lips, dear one!
   Though thy tender words I prize.
But dearer by far is the soulful gaze
   Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes,
      Your tender, loving eyes.

O chide me not with your lips, dear one!
   Though I cause your bosom sighs.
You can make repentance deeper far
   By your sad, reproving eyes,
      Your sorrowful, troubled eyes.

Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds;
   Above, in the beaming skies,
The constant stars say never a word,
   But only smile with their eyes --
      Smile on with their lustrous eyes.

Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear one;
   On the wingèd wind speech flies.
But I read the truth of your noble heart
   In your soulful, speaking eyes --
      In your deep and beautiful eyes.