The Blind Man

The Blind Man on our corner

Is sitting in the sun.

He carries pencils in a tray

And always holds out one;

He cannot tell the blue from brown,

The yellow from the red,

But he looks as if he kept a lot

Of secrets in his head—

For he smiles at something all to himself.

He keeps his money in a cup

To make a pleasant noise,

And he likes to pass the time of day

With little girls and boys,

But mostly he sits listening,

With his cup and pencil tray,

To all the different kinds of steps

That hurry by each day—

And he smiles at something all to himself.