Sara Teasdale

The Blind

The birds are all a-building,
They say the world’s a-flower,
And still I linger lonely
Within a barren bower.
 
I weave a web of fancies
Of tears and darkness spun.
How shall I sing of sunlight
Who never saw the sun?
 
I hear the pipes a-blowing,
But yet I may not dance,
I know that Love is passing,
I cannot catch his glance.
 
And if his voice should call me
And I with groping dim
Should reach his place of calling
And stretch my arms to him,
 
The wind would blow between my hands
For Joy that I shall miss,
The rain would fall upon my mouth
That his will never kiss.
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