Harry Kemp: 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.