XXI.Thought was born blind, but Thought knows what is seeing.Its careful touch, deciphering forms from shapes,Still suggests form as aught whose proper beingMere finding touch with erring darkness drapes.Yet whence, except from guessed sight, does touch teachThat touch is but a close and empty sense?How does mere touch, self-uncontented, reachFor 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 fittedWith sense of a sense whereby far things are shownSo, by touch of untouching, wrongly aright,Touch’ thought of seeing sees not things but Sight.
Thought was born blind, but Thought knows what is seeing.Its careful touch, deciphering forms from shapes,Still suggests form as aught whose proper beingMere finding touch with erring darkness drapes.Yet whence, except from guessed sight, does touch teachThat touch is but a close and empty sense?How does mere touch, self-uncontented, reachFor 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 fittedWith sense of a sense whereby far things are shownSo, by touch of untouching, wrongly aright,Touch’ thought of seeing sees not things but Sight.