IN THE OCULIST'S ANTEROOM

Not to be able to see!...

Almost as well not be.

And that man in there in his single hand

Holds all God's light,

Or just so much, you understand,

As may be drunk in by another's sight—

Dear God, will he give the light to me?

Or will a fathomless night

Drop its veil across the sight

Of my straining eyes, to become mere husks

Whence the kernel slips,

Knowing none of God's dawns and only God's dusks ...

That man has them all at his finger-tips.

Dear God! will he clear the dusk from the light?

He has spoken. The man with his cold voice has spoken.

The seal of suspense lies here shattered and broken,

And I know ... And I know

What the coming years hold which an hour since were dumb to me—

God! how precious the jewel of your light has become to me

Where's my hat? Let me go.