English poem
Poem 118 (What blindness is it that doth…)
by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge (1861–1907)
What blindness is it that doth hold thine eyes, Make streets a Hell and meadows Paradise, To shut Him out from His great creature, Man. Hath He not writ Himself in every face? Awake—and be not impotent to trace What is and has been since the world began!
More by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
- Poem 105 (Never a hansom dare come nigh…)
- Poem 112 (And one to make me slumber…)
- Poem 113 ("Nature, be thou my monitress!" I…)
- Poem 114 (Whether it was the outward eye…)
- Poem 122 (If you were true, we still…)
- Poem 126 (It went adown the dusty road…)
- Poem 128 (The clock is busy Man with…)
- Poem 129 (Why must thou, Wind, the silent…)