Harmonies (Howe collection)/The Blind

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THE BLIND
In empty days now left behind,
I asked why Love was counted blind.

No answer came until I learned
What every lover has discerned:

The blind—my answer ran—are reft
Of one thing, but how much is left!

Touch, hearing, every quickened sense
Thrills with an impulse thrice intense.

And so when Love has filled the heart,
Dull man awakes in every part;

Undreamed-of potencies are rife
Within him, crying "Sweet is life!"

And if half-blindness be his lot,
What matter—since he knows it not?

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