The Blind Man's Address to His Love

There is a beauty in the mind,
That makes thee fair to me,
Sweet Mary Anne, though I am blind,
And blind I still must be.

I sit in darkness ; but I know
If thou to me art near,
Through all my limbs I feel a glow,
A sudden gush of cheer.

Put thy least finger's smallest tip
Upon my wildest hair.
Each vein and nerve in me will skip, —
I know that thou art there.

They tell me thou art fair to see,
And of thy waist so trim ;
I know thou art straight as poplar tree.
And delicately slim.

They tell me that thine eyes are black,
As black as burning coal :
I look, but find my eye-balls lack
The light that's in my soul.

Thy hand is very soft I know —
They tell me it is white ;
But it is not like the falling snow,
Because it does not bite.

For cold and biting are the flakes,
The melting flakes of snow,
When the blinding snow-storm overtakes
The blind men as they go.

But thy hand is soft, it melts away.
And then I hear thee speak ;
And ever thy words are blithe and gay,
But thy voice is smooth as thy cheek.

So well I love the thought I have,
I do not wish to see ;
I will live on in my darksome cave,
So thou wilt live with me.