Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Blind Girl's Lament

The Blind Girl's Lament.

It is not that I cannot see The birds and flowers of spring;'Tis not that beauty seems to me A dreamy, unknown thing;—

It is not that I cannot mark The blue and star-set sky;Nor ocean's foam, nor mountain's peak— That thus I weep and sigh.

They tell me that the birds, whose notes Fall full upon mine ear,Are not all beautiful to sight, Though sweet their songs to hear.

They tell me that the gayest flowers Which sunshine ever brings,Are not the ones I know so well, But strange and scentless things.

My little brother leads me forth To where the violets grow;Hus gentle, light, yet careful step And tiny hand I know.

My mother's voice is soft and sweet, Like music on my ear;The very atmosphere seems love When these to me are near.

My father twines his arms around, And draws me to his breast,To kiss the poor, blind, helpless girl He says he loves the best.

'Tis then I ponder unknown things— It may be, weep or sigh—And think how glorious it must be To meet affection's eye.