THE BLIND MAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS LOVE. VOL. II. THERE is a beauty in the mind, That makes thee fair to me, Sweet Mary Anne, though I am blind, And blind I still must be. I sit in darkness; but I know If thou to me art near, Through all my limbs I feel a glow, A sudden gush of cheer. Put thy least finger's smallest tip Upon my wildest hair, Each vein and nerve in me will skip, I know that thou art there. They tell me thou art fair to see, And of thy waist so trim; I know thou art straight as poplar tree, They tell me that thine eyes are black, As black as burning coal : I look, but find my eye-balls lack The light that's in my soul. They tell me it is white; But it is not like the falling snow, Because it does not bite. For cold and biting are the flakes, The melting flakes of snow, When the blinding snow-storm overtakes The blind men as they go. But thy hand is soft, it melts away, And ever thy words are blithe and gay, So well I love the thought I have, I do not wish to see; I will live on in my darksome cave, |