Explore "Blind" by James Whitcomb Riley on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
You think it is a sorry thing / That I am blind. Your pitying / Is welcome to me; yet indeed, / I think I have but little need / Of it. Though you may marvel much / That _we_, who see by sense of touch / And taste and hearing, see things _you_ / May never look upon; and true / Is it that even in the scent / Of blossoms _we_ find something meant / No eyes have in their faces read, / Or wept to see interpreted.
And you might think it strange if now / I told you you were smiling. How / Do I know that? I hold your hand -- / _Its_ language I can understand -- / Give both to me, and I will show / You many other things I know.