All but blind, in his chambered hole, gropes for worms, the four clawed mole.
All but blind in the evening sky, the hooded bat, twirls softly by.
All but blind, in the buring day, the barn owl blunders, on her way.
And blind as are, these three to me, so blind to someone I must be.
Walter De La Mare ( 1873 )
All but blind in the evening sky, the hooded bat, twirls softly by.
All but blind, in the buring day, the barn owl blunders, on her way.
And blind as are, these three to me, so blind to someone I must be.
Walter De La Mare ( 1873 )