By Harry Kemp


The Spring blew trumpets of color;
Her Green sang in my brain --
I heard a blind man groping
"Tap -- tap" with his cane;

I pitied him in his blindness;
But can I boast, "I see"?
Perhaps there walks a spirit
Close by, who pities me, --

A spirit who hears me tapping
The five-sensed cane of mind
Amid such unguessed glories --
That I am worse than blind.

DayPoems Poem No. 1326
<a href="">Blind by Harry Kemp</a>

The DayPoems Poetry Collection,
Timothy Bovee, editor

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