A Sketch

The blindest buzzard that I know

Does not wear wings to spread and stir;
Nor does my special mole wear fur,
And grub among the roots below:
He sports a tail indeed, but then
It's to a coat: he's man with men:
His quill is cut to a pen.

In other points our friend's a mole,
A buzzard, beyond scope of speech.
He sees not what's within his reach,

Misreads the part, ignores the whole;
Misreads the part, so reads in vain.
Ignores the whole though patent plain, --
Misreads both parts again.

My blindest buzzard that I know.
My special mole, when will you see?
Oh no, you must not look at me.

There's nothing hid for me to show.
I might show facts as plain as day:
But, since your eyes are blind, you'd say,
"Where? What? " and turn away.