I have a fearful strength—that of despair.
What is it to be blind?
To be shut out forever, from the skies—
To see no more the “light of loving eyes”—
And, as years pass, to find
My lot unvaried by one passing gleam
Of the bright woodland, or the flashing stream!
To feel the breath of Spring,
Yet not to view one of the tiny flowers
That come from out the earth with her soft showers;