“‘Tis Summer morn . . .”
‘Tis Summer morn: the vivifying dews
Of night the sun has long exhaled: the hills
And vales are robed in deepest emerald,
Besprent with beauteous flowers: all nature smiles;
But the fair scene gives not a single gleam
Of sunshine to the beggar’s weary heart;
Whose sightless eyes had never read the signs
By which the living world reveals its joy.
He sits a-begging by the highway side,
In lone despondency; and sick at heart,
That Heaven had made it his unpitied lot
To be both poor and blind.