The Blind

by Sara Teasdale

　　

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The birds are all a-building, They say the world’s a-flower, And still I linger lonely Within a barren bower. I weave a web of fancies Of tears and darkness spun. How shall I sing of sunlight Who never saw the sun? I hear the pipes a-blowing, But yet I may not dance, I know that Love is passing, I cannot catch his glance. And if his voice should call me And I with groping dim Should reach his place of calling And stretch my arms to him, The wind would blow between my hands For Joy that I shall miss, The rain would fall upon my mouth That his will never kiss.

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