Blinded.

I can live fully in remembered things,
In loveliness long past, still beauty find;
“It snows,” they say, and memory brings
The may-tree, shaking blossoms on the wind.
I do not weep that I may see again,
Stray glints of sunlight filter through the trees,
Or glimpse a gull, strong winged in the rain;
For in my heart I hold these ecstacies.
And if the rose no longer blooms for me,
Gone are my tears. Behind these hidden eyes
My soul has drained its crimson rhapsody,
And in my treasure-house the glory lies.
“No moon to-night. And Oh! The sky looks cold!”
But to my mind another vision comes,
I see parades of colour, and the gold
Of lovely autumn's last chrysanthemums.
“Poor thing,” they say, “She sees no more the light;
Can thrill no more to periwinkles' blue.”
How can they know the clarity of sight
Remembrance alone can give the view?

Phyllis I. Young.