Afflicted

Praise for the blind who sees no more

The willow-feathered fringe of shore,

The casual glory of the sky,

The blossom or the butterfly,

But sees a heart as well as I.

Praise for the deaf whose empty ear

Turns to the flutes and cannot hear,

Forgets the sound of wind and rain

And children's voices raised in vain,

But echoes to another's pain.

For I could wound and see no blood,

Could leave the stricken where he stood,

And go about my ways, nor guess

The quality of his distress,

The color of his loneliness.

GRAY