DELIA.
There is a darkness which is still not gloom,
And thou, poor child, whose young but sightless eyes
Catch no glad radiance from the summer skies—
Worse, still, neglected in thy blindness, whom
Those nurtured like thee in the self-same womb
Have cast on strangers, strangers truly wise,
Since more than waif of gold such charge they prize—
Hast found a joy what others find a doom.
Thou knowest the way unto the chapel door,
And, kneeling softly on its blessed floor.
Thou art no longer blind; the Presence there
Reveals itself to thy adoring prayer;
Hours fly with thee that altar's Guest before,
Till, cowards, we envy what we would not share.