The Eyes of a Preacher

The eyes themselves were of that baffling protein gray which is never twice the same. There were eyes that massed the soul with the thousand guises, and that sometimes opened at rare moments and allowed it to rush up as though it were about to fare forth nakedly into the world on some wonderful adventure. They could brood with the hopeless thumbreness of leaden skies that could snap and crackle points of light like those which sparkle from a whirling sword. And yet again that could warm and soften and be all a dance with love lights, intense and masculine, blurring and compelling. But to return, I told him that unhappily for the burial service I was not

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