Canto LXIV

You thought my heart too far diseased;

      You wonder when my fancies play

      To find me gay among the gay,

Like one with any trifle pleased.

The shade by which my life was crost,

      Which makes a desert in the mind,

      Has made me kindly with my kind,

And like to him whose sight is lost;

Whose feet are guided thro' the land,

      Whose jest among his friends is free,

      Who takes the children on his knee,

And winds their curls about his hand:

He plays with threads, he beats his chair

      For pastime, dreaming of the sky;

      His inner day can never die,

His night of loss is always there.