Spenser.
20. A silver line, that from the brow to the crown,
And in the middle, parts the braided hair,
Just serves to show how delicate a soil
The golden harvest grows in; while those eyes,
Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky,
Whose azure depth their colour emulates,
Must needs be conversant with upward looks,
Prayer's voiceless service.
Wordsworth.