The baby had blue eyes.
My preference wasn’t for blue eyes. I often snapped at them, saying that they were like a dead fish’s eyes.
But how long can I keep up my ill-will, when I look with delight upon the blueness in water, sky and mountain?
Isn’t it precious to see the blue pictures on china?
A blue pencil is just the thing to mark on the margin of a pleasing book.
Blue is a poetical hue.
Robert Burns was blue-eyed.
I recalled the first American I met in Tokio, who seriously questioned whether it was a fact that Japs butcher a blue-eyed baby.
Bakabakashii wa!
Japan has no blue eye.