The Man (pressing his son to his heart). But you can still see a little, George?
George. I can hear your voice, father!
The Man. Try if you can see. Look out of the window; the sun is shining brightly, the sky is clear.
George. I see crowds of forms circling between the pupils of my eyes and my eyelids—faces I have often seen before, the leaves of books I have read before....
The Man. Then you really do still see?
George. Yes, with the eyes of my spirit—but the eyes of my body have gone out forever.
The Man (falls on his knees as if to pray; pauses, and exclaims bitterly:) Before whom shall I kneel—to whom pray—to whom complain of the unjust doom crushing my innocent child?
He rises from his knees.
It is best to bear all in silence—God laughs at our prayers—Satan mocks at our curses—
A Voice. But thy son is a Poet—and what wouldst thou more?