A Bit of Science

What! photograph in colors? ’Tis a dream
  And he who dreams it is not overwise,
If colors are vibration they but seem,
  And have no being. But if Tyndall lies,
  Why, come, then⁠—photograph my lady’s eyes.
Nay, friend, you can’t; the splendor of their blue,
  As on my own beclouded orbs they rest,
To naught but vibratory motion’s due,
  As heart, head, limbs and all I am attest.
How could her eyes, at rest themselves, be making
In me so uncontrollable a shaking?