I was dead until you found me, though I breathed. I was sightless, though I could see. And then you came...and I was awakened.
I was dead until you found me, though I breathed. I was sightless, though I could see. And then you came...and I was awakened.
Nothing can be more depressing than to expose, naked to the light of thought, the hideous growth of argot. Indeed it is like a sort of repellent animal intended to dwell in darkness which has been dragged out of its cloaca. One seems to see a horned and living creature viciously struggling to be restored to the place where it belongs. One word is like a claw, another like a sightless and bleeding eye and there are phrases which clutch like the pincers of a crab. And all of it is alive with the hideous vitality of things that have organized themselves amid disorganization.
O storm of death,
Whose sightless speed divides this sullen night!
Reach me a gentian, give me a torch Let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of a flower down the darker and darker stairs, where blue is darkened on blueness even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted September to the sightless realm where darkness is awake upon the dark.
So long as I confine my activities to social services and the blind, the newspapers compliment me extravagantly, calling me an 'arch-priest of the sightless' and 'wonder woman'. But when I discuss poverty and the industrial system under which we live that is a different matter.
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
The lark becomes a sightless song.
Thoughts Within As some poor laborer's sightless babe Wakes from its pallet on the floor In fear, to find itself alone, And gropes the open door to find Reaching anon the empty air To clutch seeking something to grasp To aid it in its search and then,
He clapped the glass to his sightless eye, And 'I'm damned if I see it', he said.
If thou that bid'st me be content wert grim,
Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb,
Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains,
Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,
Patch'd with foul moles and eye-offending marks,
I would not care, I then would be content;
For then I should not love thee; no, nor thou
Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown.
The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories