SONG OF THE BLIND ONE.
They talk of rainbows in the sky, and blossoms on the earth;
They sing the beauty of the stars in songs of love and mirth;
They say the rippling wave is fair—they tell of dewdrops bright;
They praise the sun that warms the day, and moon that cheers the night.
I do not sigh to watch the sky, I do not care to see
The lustre drop on green hill-top, or fruit upon the tree;
I've pray'd to have my lids unseal'd, but 'twas not to behold.
The pearly dawn of misty morn, or evening cloud of gold.
No, no, my Mary, I would turn from flower, star, and sun;
For well I know thou'rt fairer still, my own, my gentle one.
They sing the beauty of the stars in songs of love and mirth;
They say the rippling wave is fair—they tell of dewdrops bright;
They praise the sun that warms the day, and moon that cheers the night.
I do not sigh to watch the sky, I do not care to see
The lustre drop on green hill-top, or fruit upon the tree;
I've pray'd to have my lids unseal'd, but 'twas not to behold.
The pearly dawn of misty morn, or evening cloud of gold.
No, no, my Mary, I would turn from flower, star, and sun;
For well I know thou'rt fairer still, my own, my gentle one.
I hear the music others deem most eloquent and sweet,
The merry lark above my head—the cricket at my feet;
The laughing tones of childhood's glee that gladden while they ring,
The robin in the winter time—the cuckoo in the spring;
But never do I think those tones so beautiful as thine,
When kind words from a kinder heart confirm that heart is mine.
There is no melody of sound that bids my soul rejoice
As when I hear my simple name breathed by thy happy voice;
And, Mary, I will ne'er believe that flower, star, or sun,
Can ever be so bright as thee, my true, my gentle one.
The merry lark above my head—the cricket at my feet;
The laughing tones of childhood's glee that gladden while they ring,
The robin in the winter time—the cuckoo in the spring;
But never do I think those tones so beautiful as thine,
When kind words from a kinder heart confirm that heart is mine.
There is no melody of sound that bids my soul rejoice
As when I hear my simple name breathed by thy happy voice;
And, Mary, I will ne'er believe that flower, star, or sun,
Can ever be so bright as thee, my true, my gentle one.
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