The blind man, groping, chanced, one day,
On his dead wife’s hand-glass–a double antique!
And, suddenly, his inured heart gave way
To tears that trailed his sunken check.
As memories woke within his brain,
He held it (in his lap) reflecting woe;
And tears dropped in slow refrain
To the misty mirror’s mood below.
He muttered, “None...none shall...for me”,
His blood and breathing running their race
What made him say none else should see
(Except the mirror) his tearful race?
His hand went o’ver the mirror that felt
So sort for him; his fingers Braille-d
In ‘tears’ of glass, as if it spelt
The silent sighs and eyes-that-failed.
–K. S. R. SARMA
SOMER VILLE (MASS.)