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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416577" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Blind</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">You think it is a sorry thing<br>That I am blind. Your pitying<br>Is welcome to me; yet indeed,<br>I think I have but little need<br>Of it. Though you may marvel much<br>That _we_, who see by sense of touch<br>And taste and hearing, see things _you_<br>May never look upon; and true<br>Is it that even in the scent<br>Of blossoms _we_ find something meant<br>No eyes have in their faces read,<br>Or wept to see interpreted.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And you might think it strange if now<br>I told you you were smiling. How<br>Do I know that? I hold your hand--<br>_Its_ language I can understand--<br>Give both to me, and I will show<br>You many other things I know.<br>Listen: We never met before<br>Till now?--Well, you are something lower<br>Than five-feet-eight in height; and you<br>Are slender; and your eyes are blue--</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Your mother's eyes--your mother's hair--<br>Your mother's likeness everywhere<br>Save in your walk--and that is quite<br>Your father's; nervous.--Am I right?<br>I thought so. And you used to sing,<br>But have neglected everything<br>Of vocalism--though you may<br>Still thrum on the guitar, and play<br>A little on the violin,--<br>I know that by the callous in<br>The finger-tips of your left hand--<br>And, by-the-bye, though nature planned<br>You as most men, you are, I see,<br>'_Left_-handed,' too,--the mystery<br>Is clear, though,--your right arm has been<br>Broken, to 'break' the left one in.<br>And so, you see, though blind of sight,<br>I still have ways of seeing quite<br>Too well for you to sympathize<br>Excessively, with your good eyes.--<br>Though _once_, perhaps, to be sincere,<br>Within the whole asylum here,<br>From cupola to basement hall,<br>I was the blindest of them all!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let us move further down the walk--<br>The man here waiting hears my talk,<br>And is disturbed; besides, he may<br>Not be quite friendly anyway.<br>In fact--(this will be far enough;<br>Sit down)--the man just spoken of<br>Was once a friend of mine. He came<br>For treatment here from Burlingame--<br>A rich though brilliant student there,<br>Who read his eyes out of repair,<br>And groped his way up here, where we<br>Became acquainted, and where he<br>Met one of our girl-teachers, and,<br>If you 'll believe me, asked her hand<br>In marriage, though the girl was blind<br>As I am--and the girl _declined_.<br>Odd, wasn't it? Look, you can see<br>Him waiting there. Fine, isn't he?<br>And handsome, eloquently wide<br>And high of brow, and dignified<br>With every outward grace, his sight<br>Restored to him, clear and bright<br>As day-dawn; waiting, waiting still<br>For the blind girl that never will<br>Be wife of his. How do I know?<br>You will recall a while ago<br>I told you he and I were friends.<br>In all that friendship comprehends,<br>I was his friend, I swear! why now,<br>Remembering his love, and how<br>His confidence was all my own,<br>I hear, in fancy, the low tone<br>Of his deep voice, so full of pride<br>And passion, yet so pacified<br>With his affliction, that it seems<br>An utterance sent out of dreams<br>Of saddest melody, withal<br>So sorrowfully musical<br>It was, and is, must ever be--<br>But I'm digressing, pardon me.<br>_I_ knew not anything of love<br>In those days, but of that above<br>All worldly passion,--for my art--<br>Music,--and that, with all my heart<br>And soul, blent in a love too great<br>For words of mine to estimate.<br>And though among my pupils she<br>Whose love my friend sought came to me<br>I only knew her fingers' touch<br>Because they loitered overmuch<br>In simple scales, and needs must be<br>Untangled almost constantly.<br>But she was bright in other ways,<br>And quick of thought, with ready plays<br>Of wit, and with a voice as sweet<br>To listen to as one might meet<br>In any oratorio--<br>And once I gravely told her so,--<br>And, at my words, her limpid tone<br>Of laughter faltered to a moan,<br>And fell from that into a sigh<br>That quavered all so wearily,<br>That I, without the tear that crept<br>Between the keys, had known she wept;<br>And yet the hand I reached for then<br>She caught away, and laughed again.<br>And when that evening I strolled<br>With my old friend, I, smiling, told<br>Him I believed the girl and he<br>Were matched and mated perfectly:<br>He was so noble; she, so fair<br>Of speech, and womanly of air;<br>He, strong, ambitious; she, as mild<br>And artless even as a child;<br>And with a nature, I was sure,<br>As worshipful as it was pure<br>And sweet, and brimmed with tender things<br>Beyond his rarest fancyings.<br>He stopped me solemnly. He knew,<br>He said, how good, and just, and true<br>Was all I said of her; but as<br>For his own virtues, let them pass,<br>Since they were nothing to the one<br>That he had set his heart upon;<br>For but that morning she had turned<br>Forever from him. Then I learned<br>That for a month he had delayed<br>His going from us, with no aid<br>Of hope to hold him,--meeting still<br>Her ever firm denial, till<br>Not even in his new-found sight<br>He found one comfort or delight.<br>And as his voice broke there, I felt<br>The brother-heart within me melt<br>In warm compassion for his own<br>That throbbed so utterly alone.<br>And then a sudden fancy hit<br>Along my brain; and coupling it<br>With a belief that I, indeed,<br>Might help my friend in his great need,<br>I warmly said that I would go<br>Myself, if he decided so,<br>And see her for him--that I knew<br>My pleadings would be listened to<br>Most seriously, and that she<br>Should love him, listening to me.<br>Go; bless me! And that was the last--<br>The last time his warm hand shut fast<br>Within my own--so empty since,<br>That the remembered finger-prints<br>I 've kissed a thousand times, and wet<br>Them with the tears of all regret!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I know not how to rightly tell<br>How fared my quest, and what befell<br>Me, coming in the presence of<br>That blind girl, and her blinder love.<br>I know but little else than that<br>Above the chair in which she sat<br>I leant--reached for, and found her hand,<br>And held it for a moment, and<br>Took up the other--held them both--<br>As might a friend, I will take oath:<br>Spoke leisurely, as might a man<br>Praying for no thing other than<br>He thinks Heaven's justice;--She was blind,<br>I said, and yet a noble mind<br>Most truly loved her; one whose fond<br>Clear-sighted vision looked beyond<br>The bounds of her infirmity,<br>And saw the woman, perfectly<br>Modeled, and wrought out pure and true<br>And lovable. She quailed, and drew<br>Her hands away, but closer still<br>I caught them. 'Rack me as you will!'<br>She cried out sharply--'Call me 'blind'--<br>Love ever is--I am resigned!<br>Blind is your friend; as blind as he<br>Am I--but blindest of the three--<br>Yea, blind as death--you will not see<br>My love for you is killing me!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is a memory that may<br>Not ever wholly fade away<br>From out my heart, so bright and fair<br>The light of it still glimmers there.<br>Why, it did seem as though my sight<br>Flamed back upon me, dazzling white<br>And godlike. Not one other word<br>Of hers I listened for or heard,<br>But I _saw_ songs sung in her eyes<br>Till they did swoon up drowning-wise,<br>As my mad lips did strike her own<br>And we flashed one and one alone!<br>Ah! was it treachery for me<br>To kneel there, drinking eagerly<br>That torrent-flow of words that swept<br>Out laughingly the tears she wept?--<br>Sweet words! O sweeter far, maybe,<br>Than light of day to those that see,--<br>God knows, who did the rapture send<br>To me, and hold it from my friend.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And we were married half a year<br>Ago,--and he is--waiting here,<br>Heedless of that--or anything,<br>But just that he is lingering<br>To say good-bye to her, and bow--<br>As you may see him doing now,--<br>For there's her footstep in the hall;<br>God bless her!--help him!--save us all!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=James+Whitcomb+Riley">James Whitcomb Riley</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416577" data-title="Blind de James Whitcomb Riley" data-description="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 ..."></div>
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