By Jo Adelaide Stock
I have a friend who never saw
Night silver or a bird at dawn,
For over his kindly brown eyes
A coverlet is drawn.
“He cannot see for he is blind;
He cannot know the joy of day,”
They cry, but oh, my sightless friend
Is not as blind as they.
They see his eyes, but not the flame,
Nor hear the golden psalmody
That lives within his spirit when
He says with faith, “I see!”