It's raining my soul, it's raining, but it's raining dead eyes.

It's raining my soul, it's raining, but it's raining dead eyes.

it's raining womens voices as if they were dead even in memory

These lovely lamps, these windows of the soul

And looks commercing with the skies, / Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.

Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own webs from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch