When he walks about the streets
Every house means much to him;
Every wayfarer he meets
Modest-faced or proudly prim—
He divines: each rolling wheel's
Movement in the town he feels.
Eden's gates to him are closed,
Yet new portals open wide,
Whence rare prospects are exposed;
These he visions open eyed,
When imagination thrills
As he faces woods and hills.
Every breath of air that stirs
Has a meaning: every leaf,
Touched by him, responds; the firs
Breathe a recompense for grief,
And the grasses whisper, too,
Words he does not misconstrue.
Few can hear the clover's voice
As he hears it: few are those
Who so thrillingly rejoice
When the gillyflowers disclose
Secrets that mean life to one
Robbed of stars, though not of sun.
Touch becomes his very soul,
Giving sense of sound with sight:
He is ravaged yet made whole
Even in black fate's despite:
Look! He carries sad renown
As an emperor wears a crown!
Deaf and blind! Yet he will know
When old enemies cross his path;
For the devil-prompted foe,
Who inspired his quenchless wrath,
With incredible torment, gave
Gifts that make him more than brave.