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James Whitcomb Riley - Blind
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You think it is a sorry thing
  That I am blind.  Your pitying
  Is welcome to me; yet indeed,
  I think I have but little need
  Of it.  Though you may marvel much
  That _we_, who see by sense of touch
  And taste and hearing, see things _you_
  May never look upon; and true
  Is it that even in the scent
  Of blossoms _we_ find something meant
  No eyes have in their faces read,
  Or wept to see interpreted.

  And you might think it strange if now
  I told you you were smiling.  How
  Do I know that?  I hold your hand--
  _Its_ language I can understand--
  Give both to me, and I will show
  You many other things I know.
  Listen:  We never met before
  Till now?--Well, you are something lower
  Than five-feet-eight in height; and you
  Are slender; and your eyes are blue--

  Your mother`s eyes--your mother`s hair--
  Your mother`s likeness everywhere
  Save in your walk--and that is quite
  Your father`s; nervous.--Am I right?
  I thought so.  And you used to sing,
  But have neglected everything
  Of vocalism--though you may
  Still thrum on the guitar, and play
  A little on the violin,--
  I know that by the callous in
  The finger-tips of your left hand--
  And, by-the-bye, though nature planned
  You as most men, you are, I see,
  "_Left_-handed," too,--the mystery
  Is clear, though,--your right arm has been
  Broken, to "break" the left one in.
  And so, you see, though blind of sight,
  I still have ways of seeing quite
  Too well for you to sympathize
  Excessively, with your good eyes.--
  Though _once_, perhaps, to be sincere,
  Within the whole asylum here,
  From cupola to basement hall,
  I was the blindest of them all!

  Let us move further down the walk--
  The man here waiting hears my talk,
  And is disturbed; besides, he may
  Not be quite friendly anyway.
  In fact--(this will be far enough;
  Sit down)--the man just spoken of
  Was once a friend of mine.  He came
  For treatment here from Burlingame--
  A rich though brilliant student there,
  Who read his eyes out of repair,
  And groped his way up here, where we
  Became acquainted, and where he
  Met one of our girl-teachers, and,
  If you `ll believe me, asked her hand
  In marriage, though the girl was blind
  As I am--and the girl _declined_.
  Odd, wasn`t it?  Look, you can see
  Him waiting there.  Fine, isn`t he?
  And handsome, eloquently wide
  And high of brow, and dignified
  With every outward grace, his sight
  Restored to him, clear and bright
  As day-dawn; waiting, waiting still
  For the blind girl that never will
  Be wife of his.  How do I know?
  You will recall a while ago
  I told you he and I were friends.
  In all that friendship comprehends,
  I was his friend, I swear! why now,
  Remembering his love, and how
  His confidence was all my own,
  I hear, in fancy, the low tone
  Of his deep voice, so full of pride
  And passion, yet so pacified
  With his affliction, that it seems
  An utterance sent out of dreams
  Of saddest melody, withal
  So sorrowfully musical
  It was, and is, must ever be--
  But I`m digressing, pardon me.
  _I_ knew not anything of love
  In those days, but of that above
  All worldly passion,--for my art--
  Music,--and that, with all my heart
  And soul, blent in a love too great
  For words of mine to estimate.
  And though among my pupils she
  Whose love my friend sought came to me
  I only knew her fingers` touch
  Because they loitered overmuch
  In simple scales, and needs must be
  Untangled almost constantly.
  But she was bright in other ways,
  And quick of thought, with ready plays
  Of wit, and with a voice as sweet
  To listen to as one might meet
  In any oratorio--
  And once I gravely told her so,--
  And, at my words, her limpid tone
  Of laughter faltered to a moan,
  And fell from that into a sigh
  That quavered all so wearily,
  That I, without the tear that crept
  Between the keys, had known she wept;
  And yet the hand I reached for then
  She caught away, and laughed again.
  And when that evening I strolled
  With my old friend, I, smiling, told
  Him I believed the girl and he
  Were matched and mated perfectly:
  He was so noble; she, so fair
  Of speech, and womanly of air;
  He, strong, ambitious; she, as mild
  And artless even as a child;
  And with a nature, I was sure,
  As worshipful as it was pure
  And sweet, and brimmed with tender things
  Beyond his rarest fancyings.
  He stopped me solemnly.  He knew,
  He said, how good, and just, and true
  Was all I said of her; but as
  For his own virtues, let them pass,
  Since they were nothing to the one
  That he had set his heart upon;
  For but that morning she had turned
  Forever from him.  Then I learned
  That for a month he had delayed
  His going from us, with no aid
  Of hope to hold him,--meeting still
  Her ever firm denial, till
  Not even in his new-found sight
  He found one comfort or delight.
  And as his voice broke there, I felt
  The brother-heart within me melt
  In warm compassion for his own
  That throbbed so utterly alone.
  And then a sudden fancy hit
  Along my brain; and coupling it
  With a belief that I, indeed,
  Might help my friend in his great need,
  I warmly said that I would go
  Myself, if he decided so,
  And see her for him--that I knew
  My pleadings would be listened to
  Most seriously, and that she
  Should love him, listening to me.
  Go; bless me!  And that was the last--
  The last time his warm hand shut fast
  Within my own--so empty since,
  That the remembered finger-prints
  I `ve kissed a thousand times, and wet
  Them with the tears of all regret!

  I know not how to rightly tell
  How fared my quest, and what befell
  Me, coming in the presence of
  That blind girl, and her blinder love.
  I know but little else than that
  Above the chair in which she sat
  I leant--reached for, and found her hand,
  And held it for a moment, and
  Took up the other--held them both--
  As might a friend, I will take oath:
  Spoke leisurely, as might a man
  Praying for no thing other than
  He thinks Heaven`s justice;--She was blind,
  I said, and yet a noble mind
  Most truly loved her; one whose fond
  Clear-sighted vision looked beyond
  The bounds of her infirmity,
  And saw the woman, perfectly
  Modeled, and wrought out pure and true
  And lovable.  She quailed, and drew
  Her hands away, but closer still
  I caught them.  "Rack me as you will!"
  She cried out sharply--"Call me `blind`--
  Love ever is--I am resigned!
  Blind is your friend; as blind as he
  Am I--but blindest of the three--
  Yea, blind as death--you will not see
  My love for you is killing me!"

  There is a memory that may
  Not ever wholly fade away
  From out my heart, so bright and fair
  The light of it still glimmers there.
  Why, it did seem as though my sight
  Flamed back upon me, dazzling white
  And godlike.  Not one other word
  Of hers I listened for or heard,
  But I _saw_ songs sung in her eyes
  Till they did swoon up drowning-wise,
  As my mad lips did strike her own
  And we flashed one and one alone!
  Ah! was it treachery for me
  To kneel there, drinking eagerly
  That torrent-flow of words that swept
  Out laughingly the tears she wept?--
  Sweet words!  O sweeter far, maybe,
  Than light of day to those that see,--
  God knows, who did the rapture send
  To me, and hold it from my friend.

  And we were married half a year
  Ago,--and he is--waiting here,
  Heedless of that--or anything,
  But just that he is lingering
  To say good-bye to her, and bow--
  As you may see him doing now,--
  For there`s her footstep in the hall;
  God bless her!--help him!--save us all!
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