BLIND.

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, was n't it? Look, you can see

Him waiting there. Fine, is n'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!