The Spring blew trumpets of color,
Her green song in my brain . . .
I heard a blind man groping,
Tap-tap with his cane;
I pitied him his blindness,
But can I boast "I see?"
Perhaps there stands a spirit,
Nearby, who pities me --
A Spirit who sees me tapping
The five-sensed cane of mind
Amid such unguessed glory
That I am worse than blind!
