Poems (Sill)/Blindfold
HAT do we know of the world, as we grow so old and wise?Do the years, that still the heartbeats, quicken the drowsy eyes?At twenty we thought we knew it,—the world there, at our feet;We thought we had found its bitter, we knew we had found its sweet.Now at forty and fifty, what do we make of the world?There in her sand she crouches, the Sphinx with her gray wings furled.Soul of a man I know not; who knoweth, can foretell,And what can I read of fate, even of self I have learned so well?Heart of a woman I know not: how should I hope to know, I that am foiled by a flower, or the stars of the silent snow;I that have never guessed the mind of the bright-eyed bird,Whom even the dull rocks cheat, and the whirlwind's awful word?Let me loosen the fillet of clay from the shut and darkened lid,For life is a blindfold game, and the Voice from view is hid.I face him as best I can, still groping, here and there,For the hand that has touched me lightly, the lips that have said, "Declare!"Well, I declare him my friend,—the friend of the whole sad race;And oh, that the game were over, and I might see his face!But 'tis much, though I grope in blindness, the Voice that is hid from viewMay be heard, may be even loved, in a dream that may come true.
BLINDFOLD.
HAT do we know of the world, as we grow so old and wise?Do the years, that still the heartbeats, quicken the drowsy eyes?At twenty we thought we knew it,—the world there, at our feet;We thought we had found its bitter, we knew we had found its sweet.Now at forty and fifty, what do we make of the world?There in her sand she crouches, the Sphinx with her gray wings furled.Soul of a man I know not; who knoweth, can foretell,And what can I read of fate, even of self I have learned so well?Heart of a woman I know not: how should I hope to know, I that am foiled by a flower, or the stars of the silent snow;I that have never guessed the mind of the bright-eyed bird,Whom even the dull rocks cheat, and the whirlwind's awful word?Let me loosen the fillet of clay from the shut and darkened lid,For life is a blindfold game, and the Voice from view is hid.I face him as best I can, still groping, here and there,For the hand that has touched me lightly, the lips that have said, "Declare!"Well, I declare him my friend,—the friend of the whole sad race;And oh, that the game were over, and I might see his face!But 'tis much, though I grope in blindness, the Voice that is hid from viewMay be heard, may be even loved, in a dream that may come true.