by Elsie Higginbotham.
Originally published in The Yellow Book (Bodley Head) vol.11 (Oct 1896).
Outside the blind, the world lives on;
A world of mingled green and white—
The blackbird sings—no sweetness gone
From tones, last year, your chief delight;
And yet, dear heart, that cadence sad,
In last year's notes no utt'rance had.
This side the blind, the world stands still;
A world grown dumb, since yesterday;
No hope of joy—no dread of ill,
Remains, to mar a peace whose sway,
Seems strangest, where, upon their shelves,
In dust, your books enshroud themselves.
Outside the blind, feet pass along;
I hear a man's voice blithe and kind,
From speaking change to joyous song—
I hear, and shrink, this side the blind. . . .
But you stir not; so fast you sleep,
I dare to kiss your brow. . . . and weep,