Could I Divine How Her Gray Eyes Gat Such Cold Haughtiness Of Skies; How, Some Wood-Flower'S Shadow Brown, Dimmed Her Fair Forehead'S Wrath A Frown; How, Rippled Sunshine Blown Thro' Air, Tossed Scorn Her Eloquence Of Hair; How To A Folded Bud Again She Drew Her Blossomed Lips' Disdain; Naught Deigning Save Eyes' Utterance, Star-Words, Which Quicker Reach The Sense; Then, Afterwards, How Melted There The Austere Woman To One Tear; Then Were I Wise To Know How Grew This Star-Stained Miracle Of Blue, How God Makes Wild Flowers Out Of Dew.