You thought my heart too far diseased;
      You wonder when my fancies play
      To find me gay among the gay,
Like one with any trifle pleased.

The shade by which my life was crost,
      Which makes a desert in the mind,
      Has made me kindly with my kind,
And like to him whose sight is lost;

Whose feet are guided thro' the land,
      Whose jest among his friends is free,
      Who takes the children on his knee,
And winds their curls about his hand:

He plays with threads, he beats his chair
      For pastime, dreaming of the sky;
      His inner day can never die,
His night of loss is always there.


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Last modified 14 February 2010