The Blind
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.