A flower-soft hand once took my own,—
That touch I never shall forget!
A strange voice spoke—so strange a tone
Mine ear had never met!
It said, "Come—see—my—garden,—Come!"
(The flower-soft fingers closer twined):
The voice of one born deaf and dumb,
The touch of one born blind!
They thrilled me so, the tears came fast;
But in glad haste she led the way;
Through hall and open door we passed
Into a garden gay.
Her share was but a little space.
It bloomed with pansies dark and bright;
And each looked up with elfin grace,
As though to win her sight.
She smiled—the pansy-faces smiled
Through tears—or was it morning dew?
Down knelt the deaf and dumb, blind child
"I do—give—all—to—you!"
I could not stay those fingers swift,
She plucked me all the flowers she had!
I never shall have any gift
So sweet as this,—so sad!