Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Second Book of Modern Verse. 1922.

Blind

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.