The goldenrod is yellow

The voice of one who goes before to make The paths of June more beautiful, is thine Sweet May!

And every bird I ever knew Back and forth in the summer flew; And breezes wafted over me The scent of every flower and tree; Till I forgot the pain and gloom And silence of my darkened room.

On the king’s gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They called him dead; And made his eldest son one day Slave in his father’s stead.

[A]ll lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love.

Like a blind spinner in the sun, I tread my days; I know that all the threads will run Appointed ways; I know each day will bring its task, And, being blind, no more I ask.

We have flattered ourselves by inventing proverbs of comparison in matter of blindness,—"blind as a bat," for instance. It would be safe to say that there cannot be found in the animal kingdom a bat, or any other creature, so blind in its …