A restless night, or something close to it, starts the poem: the speaker lies in "a restless haze" thinking about someone's eyes. But the eyes turn out to be only a doorway to a bigger preoccupation. What the speaker really wants is to know another person completely, and the poem is a small, circling study of why that can't happen.
The title does much of the work. "Glass Eyes" suggests a doll or a statue, something made rather than born, and glass suits the poem's problem because it has a double nature. It is the clearest of materials, "the purest blue glass," yet it is also hard and blank. You can see straight through it and it still gives nothing away. The speaker admires a flawless surface while staying shut out from whatever lies behind it. Set that clarity against the speaker's own "haze" and the first stanza becomes a neat contrast: the person looked at is crystalline, the person looking is befogged.
The second line of that pairing, "From a perfectionist's mold you were cast," bends its word order so that it can land on "cast" and chime with "glass." The metaphor is flattering and slightly chilling at once. To be cast from a mold is to be finished and fixed, so the praise quietly turns the loved one into an object, beautiful and silent. The speaker also never describes the person beyond the eyes. "Exceptional gaze" is a large, vague phrase that tells us the speaker is impressed without showing us anything specific. Whether or not it was intended, the vagueness acts out the poem's problem, because the speaker's knowledge stops at the surface.
The sound of the poem pulls against its anxiety. Its couplets (haze/gaze, glass/cast, you/do, tell/well) are tidy, and the rhythm is a light, rolling one, with beats that fall roughly every third syllable, as in "I LIE in a REST-less HAZE." That bounce feels closer to a song or nursery rhyme than to a sleepless meditation, and the gap is productive: the verse hums along evenly while the mind it describes "spins circles." That line even circles in miniature, ending on "you," the same point its thought keeps returning to. Two lines later, "To ask, to know to get you to tell" stumbles through stacked infinitives with no punctuation, and the tangled grammar mirrors the tangled thinking.
The final tercet is where the construction really shifts. The rhyme word "well" spills over the stanza break, so that "How can I ever know you as well" runs straight into "As well as I wish." The phrase then repeats three times, and each repetition raises the stakes. "As well as I wish" is desire, "As well as I can" is limit, and "As well as if we were one and the same" is something else entirely. The couplet pattern gives way to three lines that no longer rhyme tidily, and the last line is the longest, stretching the rhythm as the thought reaches past what is possible. Knowing someone as well as you know yourself would mean actually being them, and the conditional "if we were" admits as much. There is a quiet irony too, since if the two really were "one and the same," there would be no one left to gaze at.
The poem is not a grand one, and some of its language is stock ("exceptional," for instance). Its interest lies in how economically a short, simple form captures a very common frustration, that intense attention is not the same as access. The speaker looks hard at a pair of eyes, wants what lies behind them, and is left, like the poem's last line, with a wish that can only be stated and not fulfilled.