64
POEMS.
THE BLIND LOVER.
It's true, my Love, of precious light
These sightless orbs admit no ray;
Dark are to me the Stars of Night,
And blush of morn, and blaze of day.
Yet think not, Sweet, the want of eyes
Can e'er thine Arthur's mind annoy,
While Mary's hand that want supplies,
And kindly guides her poor blind Boy.
These sightless orbs admit no ray;
Dark are to me the Stars of Night,
And blush of morn, and blaze of day.
Yet think not, Sweet, the want of eyes
Can e'er thine Arthur's mind annoy,
While Mary's hand that want supplies,
And kindly guides her poor blind Boy.
