Your eyes are the eyes of the morning

Your eyes are the eyes of the morning
That mark new beginnings with your fresh light.
By the window, the birds are chirping;
And when you look, all things burn bright.

Did the night bury the Sun in your body?
Did the graces of the Earth seep through your skin?
All that is left for the birds and me
Is to bask in your beauty as if we were made of sin.

Now I know why flowers bloom at your touch:
You are a rare creature.
In perfection, too much —
For you are overflowing — wild, wild dreams of nature.