Poems by Robert Nicoll Second edition: with numerous additions, and a memoir of the author |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | IV. |
I AM BLIND. |
| V. |
 | Poems by Robert Nicoll |  |
140
I AM BLIND.
The woodland! O! how beautiful,
How pleasant it must be!
How soft its grass—how fresh the leaves
Upon each forest-tree!
I hear its wild rejoicing birds
Their songs of gladness sing;
To see them leap from bough to bough
Must be a pleasant thing:
I must but image it in mind,
I cannot see it—I am blind!
How pleasant it must be!
How soft its grass—how fresh the leaves
Upon each forest-tree!
I hear its wild rejoicing birds
Their songs of gladness sing;
To see them leap from bough to bough
Must be a pleasant thing:
I must but image it in mind,
I cannot see it—I am blind!
I feel the fragrance of the flowers,—
Go, pull me one, I pray:
The leaves are green upon its stalk—
'Tis richly red you say?
O! it must full of beauty be—
It hath a pleasant smell;
Could I but see its loveliness
My heart with joy would swell!
I can but image it in mind—
I ne'er shall see it—I am blind!
Go, pull me one, I pray:
The leaves are green upon its stalk—
'Tis richly red you say?
O! it must full of beauty be—
It hath a pleasant smell;
Could I but see its loveliness
My heart with joy would swell!
I can but image it in mind—
I ne'er shall see it—I am blind!
The trees are glorious green, you say—
Their branches widely spread;
And Nature on their budding leaves
Its nursing dew hath shed.
They must be fair; but what is green?
What is a spreading tree?
What is a shady woodland walk?
Say, canst thou answer me?
No! I may image them in mind,
But cannot know them—I am blind!
Their branches widely spread;
And Nature on their budding leaves
Its nursing dew hath shed.
141
What is a spreading tree?
What is a shady woodland walk?
Say, canst thou answer me?
No! I may image them in mind,
But cannot know them—I am blind!
The songsters that so sweetly chant
Within the sky so fair,
Until my heart with joy doth leap,
As it a wild bird were—
How seem they to the light-bless'd eye?
What! are they then so small?
Can sounds of such surpassing joy
From things so tiny fall?
I must but image them in mind—
I cannot see them—I am blind!
Within the sky so fair,
Until my heart with joy doth leap,
As it a wild bird were—
How seem they to the light-bless'd eye?
What! are they then so small?
Can sounds of such surpassing joy
From things so tiny fall?
I must but image them in mind—
I cannot see them—I am blind!
A something warm comes o'er my hand;
What is it? pray thee tell:
Sunlight come down among the trees
Into this narrow dell?
Thou seest the sunlight and the sun,
And both are very bright!
'Tis well they are not known to me,
Or I might loathe my night:
But I may image them in mind—
I ne'er shall see them—I am blind!
What is it? pray thee tell:
Sunlight come down among the trees
Into this narrow dell?
Thou seest the sunlight and the sun,
And both are very bright!
'Tis well they are not known to me,
Or I might loathe my night:
But I may image them in mind—
I ne'er shall see them—I am blind!
My hand is resting on your cheek—
'Tis soft as fleecy snow:
My sister, art thou very fair?
That thou art good, I know.
Thou art—thou art! I feel the blush
Along thy neck doth wend!
Thou must be fair—so carefully
Thy brother thou dost tend!
But I must image thee in mind—
I cannot see thee—I am blind!
'Tis soft as fleecy snow:
142
That thou art good, I know.
Thou art—thou art! I feel the blush
Along thy neck doth wend!
Thou must be fair—so carefully
Thy brother thou dost tend!
But I must image thee in mind—
I cannot see thee—I am blind!
The changes of the earth and sky—
All Nature's glow and gloom—
Must ever be unknown to me—
My soul is in a tomb!
O! I can feel the blessed sun,
Mirth, music, tears that fall,
And darkness sad, and joy, and woe,—
Yea, Nature's movements all:
But I must image them in mind—
I cannot see them—I am blind!
All Nature's glow and gloom—
Must ever be unknown to me—
My soul is in a tomb!
O! I can feel the blessed sun,
Mirth, music, tears that fall,
And darkness sad, and joy, and woe,—
Yea, Nature's movements all:
But I must image them in mind—
I cannot see them—I am blind!
| Poems by Robert Nicoll | |