Vainly the Vision of Life entreats those eyes
Where stars of glamour mock at revelations.
But singular fiery moments do surprise
With dreadful or delicious divinations
The whorls of our blue Labyrinth: the sweet
Blind sense of touch tells like an undersong
Marvellous matters. What though snared feet,
And wounded hands, and ravelled coils of wrong,
Plead that the solemn Vision might make whole
Our imperfection?—Fevered second-sight,
Audacious wisdom of the blinded soul,
Dim delicate auroras of delight
That thrill the Dark from startled finger-tips,
Are ye less precious an Apocalypse?