Charles Carville was one of those people whose face didn’t tell the whole story. His eyes looked permanently sad, even lifeless, but his mouth could smile, as if part of him was warmer than it appeared. The speaker admits that he and others never really listened to Carville while he was alive. They dismissed his odd ideas and quiet manner, staying out of touch with what he actually thought and felt. Only after his death do they imagine his blank eyes finally speaking, and at that point they hear everything they had missed. There is a quiet regret in this: the poem is less about Carville’s strange face than about how easily people overlook the inner lives of those who don’t fit in or speak loudly. The mood is subdued, thoughtful, and a little haunted by belated understanding.
Charles Carville's Eyes — Summary
A melancholy face Charles Carville had, But not so melancholy as it seemed, -- When once you knew him, -- for his mouth redeemed His insufficient eyes, forever sad: In them there was no life-glimpse, good or bad, -- Nor joy nor passion in them ever gleamed; His mouth was all of him that ever beamed, His eyes were sorry, but his mouth was glad. He never was a fellow that said much, And half of what he did say was not heard By many of us: we were out of touch With all his whims and all his theories Till he was dead, so those blank eyes of his Might speak them. Then we heard them, every word.