Her eyes too clear let in so sharp a light

It crowded memory with black and white,

With skies, and green, with doors, with printed words,

With downward rain, and downward drifting birds.

As wakeful as a soldier standing guard,

She looked at every flower long and hard,

And scrupulous as old astronomers

At nameless faces looking into hers.

The light came in. She could not turn away.

The light shone through her open eyes all day

As bright as noon on country colorings.

She saw the honor of the shape of things,

And though she saw nowhere two things the same,

Not one but asked her mutely for its name.

She said, "That vine across the arch. That stair.

That weather-vane of gilt. That window-square.

That warped old man. That dog. That child alone.

That staring face: that mirrored face; my own."

Staring, she thought, "This full unshaded light

Will kill or blind me soon with too much sight.

And yet no human creature many a year

Has taken through his eyes the death I fear.

My hurt will heal, God knows, with all he knows,

And I shall die at eighty, I suppose,

in comfort so accustomed it will dim

Even the final sight of seraphim.

But I had rather blindness made it true

Than close my eyes because I wanted to."