Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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 …