A speaker remembers a morning when he saw a girl’s clear eyes. They concealed everything but a vague hint that there was something to reveal. His own eyes gave back nothing more. That wordless standoff, he says, is like a seal on a tomb—it won’t be broken until after death, and then it will be too late. Every person there, busy with their tasks, left the truest things unsaid, despite endless chatter. They all went through the day sealed like tombs. Not until later could he admit that his focus fell entirely on his own feelings: the sharp pleasure and pain of the sunlit square, the dark shelter of cloisters, the thin shade of a plane tree. Music blazed, and children marched in line after line, their bodies hiding a plaque that read “SEVENTEEN THIRTY-NINE.” The mood is one of private regret, a sense that amid all that life, he was numb to genuine connection, wrapped up in solitary sensation.
That Girl's Clear Eyes — Summary
THAT girl's clear eyes utterly concealed all Except that there was something to reveal. And what did mine say in the interval? No more: no less. They are but as a seal Not to be broken till after I am dead; And then vainly. Every one of us This morning at our tasks left nothing said, In spite of many words. We were sealed thus, Like tombs. Nor until now could I admit That all I cared for was the pleasure and pain I tasted in the stony square sunlit, Or the dark cloisters, or shade of airy plane, While music blazed and children, line after line, Marched past, hiding the "SEVENTEEN THIRTY- NINE."