A Blind Singer.

In covert of a leafy porch,     Where woodbine clings,     And roses drop their crimson leaves,     He sits and sings;     With soft brown crest erect to hear,     And drooping wings.     Shut in a narrow cage, which bars     His eager flight,     Shut in the darker prison-house     Of blinded sight,     Alike to him are sun and stars,     The day, the night.     But all the fervor of high noon,     Hushed, fragrant, strong,     And all the peace of moonlit nights     When nights are long,     And all the bliss of summer eves,     Breathe in his song.     The rustle of the fresh green woods,     The hum of bee,     The joy of flight, the perfumed waft     Of blossoming tree,     The half-forgotten, rapturous thrill     Of liberty,--     All blend and mix, while evermore,     Now and again,     A plaintive, puzzled cadence comes,     A low refrain,     Caught from some shadowy memory     Of patient pain.     In midnight black, when all men sleep,     My singer wakes,     And pipes his lovely melodies,     And trills and shakes.     The dark sky bends to listen, but     No answer makes.     O, what is joy? In vain we grasp     Her purple wings;     Unwon, unwooed, she flits to dwell     With humble things;     She shares my sightless singer's cage,     And so--he sings.