'He's blind,' we say. Then turn aside Upon our way, again to view Familiar things - some prospect wide, Some olden scene for ever new. Heedless we pa** along, and soon The groping figure's out of mind, Lost in the sunlit afternoon. 'Poor chap, he's blind.' Slowly he taps along the street, Pitch black beneath our smiling skies: While ours the boon again to greet New scenes with ever thoughtless eyes. Thoughtless indeed if, pa**ing, we Grudge thanks for this most precious sense. He asks of us - not sympathy But recompence.