Sight
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
1878 to 1962
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By the lamplit stall I loitered, feasting my eyes
colours ripe and rich for the heart's desire—
Tomatoes, than Krakatoa's fire,
Oranges like old sunsets over Tyre,
apples golden-green as the glades of Paradise.
And as lingered, lost in divine delight,
My heart thanked God the goodly gift of sight
And all youth's lively keen and quick...
When suddenly, behind me the night,
I heard the tapping of a blind man's stick.