FROM ONE BLIND

By Cale Young Rice

I cannot say thy cheek is like the rose,

Thy hair like rippled sunbeams, and thine eyes

Like violets, April-rich and sprung of God.

My barren gaze can never know what throes

Such boons of beauty waken, tho’ I rise

Each day a-tremble with the ruthless hope

That light will pierce my useless lids — then grope

Till night, blind as the worm within his clod.

Yet unto me thou art not less divine,

I touch thy cheek — and know the mystery hid

Within the twilight breeze; I smooth thy hair

And understand how slipping hours may twine

Themselves into eternity: yea, rid

Of all but love, I kiss thine eyes and seem

To see all beauty God Himself may dream.

Why then should I o'ermuch for earth-sight care?