Eleanor Farjeon (Элинор Фарджон)
In the Oculist’s Anteroom
I Not to be able to see!... Almost as well not be. And that man in there in his single hand Holds all God's light, Or just so much, you understand, As may be drunk in by another's sight— Dear God, will he give the light to me? Or will a fathomless night Drop its veil across the sight Of my straining eyes, to become mere husks Whence the kernel slips, Knowing none of God's dawns and only God's dusks ... That man has them all at his finger-tips. Dear God! will he clear the dusk from the light? II He has spoken. The man with his cold voice has spoken. The seal of suspense lies here shattered and broken, _And I know_ ... And I know What the coming years hold which an hour since were dumb to me— God! how precious the jewel of your light has become to me Where's my hat? Let me go.
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