A Youth, with Nature's candles long burnt out, Moves cautiously along the narrow street. The crossing gained, he stands and taps the curb Intent on sounds of swiftly passing feet. His slender form is drenched with driving rain Before a woman speaks who knows his plight. To him her voice resembles symphonies, Or lullabies which mothers croon at night. With gracious thanks to her for help, he smiles And passes on to work, perhaps to find Deserted crossings, or else busy folks Who hurry on, unheedful of the blind. |