and something of the miracle of Nature is revealed to me.
Occasionally, if I am very fortunate,
I place my hand gently on a small tree and feel the happy quiver of a bird in full song.
I am delighted to have the cool waters of a brook rush thought my open finger.
To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is
more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug.
To me the pageant of seasons is a thrilling and unending drama,
the action of which streams through my finger tips.
If I can get so much pleasure from mere touch,
how much more beauty must be revealed by sight.
Suppose you set your mind to work on the problem of how you would use your own eyes
if you had only three more days to see.
If with the oncoming darkness of the third night you knew that the sun would never rise for you again,
how would you spend those three precious intervening days?
What would you most want to let your gaze rest upon?
I, naturally, should want most to see the things
which have become dear to me through my years of darkness.
You, too, would want to let your eyes rest on the things that have become dear to you
so that you could take the memory of them with you into the night that loomed before you.
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