BLINDNESS
I suppose I must be blind.
People say continually that the world is a wicked place;
I hear them talking about it all the time.
They say our city streets reek
With sin and sorrow
And all manner of misery and filth,
And yet I do not see any of it.
I go up and down these streets every day
And I see that they are ugly and that many people
Are deformed and sick and hungry;
But I close my eyes to it.
I suppose somebody will call me cowardly, but what shall I do?
I have no money to give the poor, and perhaps
That is not getting at their real trouble anyway.
I cannot heal the sick and deformed.
I cannot make the streets cleaner.
So I just think of other things.
Of my books at home, or the tennis courts in the park,
Or my pretty sister or anything.
There is nothing wrong in my own world.
I am happy. I like my school well enough.
I have my boy friends, and they are healthy athletic boys.
All the girls I know are good girls,
With charming and high minds.
And yet it is true that many boys lie and steal,
And girls run away and are dragged into lives of shame.
Why do I not see it? Why do I not do anything?
Why am I so helpless, if I have any duty to others?