I could not paint, nor could I draw
The look that searched the night;
The bleak refinement of the face I saw
In lantern light.
A cunning hand might seize the crag,
Or stay the flight of a gull,
Or the rocket's flash; or more--the lightning jag
That lit the hull.
But as a man born blind must steal
His colors from the night
By hand, I had to touch that face to feel
It marble white.