| |
| THE BLIND man at his window-bars | |
| Stands in the morning dewy dim; | |
| The lily-footed dawn, the stars | |
| That wait for it, are naught to him. | |
| |
| And naught to his unseeing eyes | 5 |
| The brownness of a sunny plain, | |
| Where worn and drowsy August lies, | |
| And wakens but to sleep again. | |
| |
| And naught to him a greening slope, | |
| That yearns up to the heights above, | 10 |
| And naught the leaves of May, that ope | |
| As softly as the eyes of love. | |
| |
| And naught to him the branching aisles, | |
| Athrong with woodland worshippers, | |
| And naught the fields where summer smiles | 15 |
| Among her sunburned labourers. | |
| |
| The way a trailing streamlet goes, | |
| The barefoot grasses on its brim, | |
| The dew a flower cup o’erflows | |
| With silent joy, are hid from him. | 20 |
| |
| To him no breath of Nature calls; | |
| Upon his desk his work is laid; | |
| He looks up at the dingy walls, | |
| And listens to the voice of Trade. | |
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