Classic Poem

Whenever I see him pass this way,
The blind old piper who comes to play
A few familiar faded tunes,
That twinkled once in forgotten Junes,
I think of Homer, his sightless story,
Who jeweled Greece with a minstrel's glory,
And England's Milton, his darkened hours,
Whose star-flung shaft of song still towers!

The numb wind droops on frozen wings,
But when he plays, the summer sings …
The pavements magically pass
From dull gray stones to dancing grass.
And houses, stereotyped and staid,
Seem castles where romance has strayed!

And so this minstrel, blind and bent,
All day pipes youth and merriment,
Until the shadows crawl and climb
Across the roofs at twilight time.
Oh, what high music should we make,
Who still can watch the spring awake,
If they, without the gift of sight,
Can leave behind a trail of light!