Margaret E. Sangster,
Cross Roads
“ A blind man stumbles, groping past; He cannot see their scarlet shine; And yet some memory seems to twine About his soul. For, oh, he turns As trusting as a child who yearns For some vague dream, and smilingly He lifts the eyes that cannot see.... A blind man stumbles, groping past. The window box across the street Is filled with scarlet flowers; They tell a secret, tender, sweet, Through all the dreary hours. And folk who hurry on their way Dream of some other brighter day.... ”
