THE volleying schoolboys play, The mellow church bells call; Muffled on this still bay Life's loud tides fall. Here would the blind man sit Through sunshine and through rain, With fingers that shall knit Never again. And by her master set His loyal, faithful guard -- A rough-haired, keen-eyed pet -- Kept watch and ward. Hung round her shaggy throat, A little pannikin Clinked as the passers-by Threw pennies in. She never strayed, but state Patient through all the noise, Fronting, unmoved, sedate, The larcenous boys. Fulfilled with honest pride, If, when the hour was come, She of her skill might guide Her master home. The blind is blind no more. 'Tis two long months since he, Safe on life's further shore, Began to see. But passing where to-day At the familiar spot Through long past years, the pair Were, but are not, I marked with wondering eye And some unwonted thrill The faithful guardian lie, Observant still. Upon her shaggy feet She stretched her watchful head, With wistful gaze and sweet Waiting the dead. His empty seat was there, Vacant, but tended yet, The carpet's scanty square, The half-made net. Her useless pannikin Echoed no joyous clink; 'Twas filled with water now For her to drink. Marking those patient eyes, Unchanging, faithful, dumb, Whereon no doubt might rise, Nor shadow come, I thought if this brute love Thus shares our human grief, Dumb Trust which looks above And courts Belief, Would that some mystic voice Might reach that watching ear, "Take comfort, nay, rejoice! He is not here." |