Fear of the Blind
The blind tap their way from stone to stone feel from shadow to shadow, suncaressed between the plane-trees. I listen with closed eyes to the dry autumnal sound of their searching. Whom the tree grows in, whom clouds compel, green enter, red, blue of a bell of a ringing sky; whom wings delight or waving weed on frayed sleeves of the sea, I fear the blind: they cannot share my world but stop its spinning with their heavy shadows. Paris, 1947
Early Poems
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