The Blind - By Sara Teasdale

The birds are all a-building,
 They say the world's a-flower,
And still I linger lonely
 Within a barren bower.

I weave a web of fancies
 Of tears and darkness spun.
How shall I sing of sunlight
 Who never saw the sun?

I hear the pipes a-blowing,
 But yet I may not dance,
I know that Love is passing,
 I cannot catch his glance.

And if his voice should call me
 And I with groping dim
Should reach his place of calling
 And stretch my arms to him,

The wind would blow between my hands
 For Joy that I shall miss,
The rain would fall upon my mouth
 That his will never kiss.