Annals of our ancestors; one hundred and fifty years of history in the ...

CHILDHOOD OF B. U. WATKINS 37
If I could write what my heart calls up
When I see these crystal rounds,
And this ancient metal of little price
Which the two old lenses bounds;
If I could write what my mind would frame
Of the story that shines on the glass,
I would paint a hoy with rosy face
And eyes like the sky where clouds pass.
Ah, I would write of those great blue eyes
And the hungry soul behind;
Of the reaching out and the longing to know;
Of the shut-in, rare young mind
The pages were there, the page of the Book,
And of masters old and wise;
But a film grew over the youthful sight
And a veil lay on his eyes.
The longing grew with the growing brain —
Oh, for a mind well fed!
Oh, for a way for the soul to fly.
To know what the great have said!
The silence was deep, for the things desired
Of masters there were none.
And only a little light came down
For the blinded boy in the sun.
He thanked his God for the little light.
But books were closed so fast.
Until these two little rounds were his —
A key in his hands at last!
Can we with keen sight and books piled high,
Can we know the rapture that shined
In those windows of blue when the letters appeared
On the page for the eyes that were blind?
Is there wonder I seem on these glasses to see
Old Homer's verse unrolled,
And of poets who sang for the boy who was blind,
With a music no night controlled?
That tongues of Athens and of Rome
In stately measures pass.
Enclosed within these metal frames
Upon their discs of glass?