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Poem	Thought was born blind, but Thought knows what is seeing. Its careful touch, deciphering forms from shapes, Still suggests form as aught whose proper being Mere finding touch with erring darkness drapes. Yet whence, except from guessed sight, does touch teach That touch is but a close and empty sense? How does mere touch, self-uncontented, reach For some truer sense's whole intelligence? The thing once touched, if touch be now omitted, Stands yet in memory real and outward known, So the untouching memory of touch is fitted With sense of a sense whereby far things are shown So, by touch of untouching, wrongly aright, Touch' thought of seeing sees not things but Sight.
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