Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/361

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When he walks about the streets

Every house means much to him;

Every wayfarer he meets

Modest-faced or proudly prim—

He divines: each rolling wheel's

Movement in the town he feels.

Eden's gates to him are closed,

Yet new portals open wide,

Whence rare prospects are exposed;

These he visions open eyed,

When imagination thrills

As he faces woods and hills.

Every breath of air that stirs

Has a meaning: every leaf,

Touched by him, responds; the firs

Breathe a recompense for grief,

And the grasses whisper, too,

Words he does not misconstrue.

Few can hear the clover's voice

As he hears it: few are those

Who so thrillingly rejoice

When the gillyflowers disclose

Secrets that mean life to one

Robbed of stars, though not of sun.

Touch becomes his very soul,

Giving sense of sound with sight:

He is ravaged yet made whole

Even in black fate's despite:

Look! He carries sad renown

As an emperor wears a crown!

Deaf and blind! Yet he will know

When old enemies cross his path;

For the devil-prompted foe,

Who inspired his quenchless wrath,

With incredible torment, gave

Gifts that make him more than brave. Rowland Thirlmere