To A Picture

Oh, serious eyes! how is it that the light,
  The burning rays, that mine pour into ye,
  Still find ye cold, and dead, and dark as night—
  Oh, lifeless eyes! can ye not answer me?
  Oh, lips! whereon mine own so often dwell,
  Hath love's warm, fearful, thrilling touch, no spell
  To waken sense in ye?—oh, misery!
  Oh, breathless lips! can ye not speak to me?
  Thou soulless mimicry of life! my tears
  Fall scalding over thee; in vain, in vain;
  I press thee to my heart, whose hopes, and fears,
  Are all thine own; thou dost not feel the strain.
  Oh, thou dull image! wilt thou not reply
  To my fond prayers, and wild idolatry?