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Let them alone: they be blind leaders of the blind. And if the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch.

Oh, say! what is that thing call'd light, Which I must ne'er enjoy? What are the blessings of the sight? Oh, tell your poor blind boy!

None so blind as those that will not see.

Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore; Give me to see, and Ajax asks no more.

O loss of sight, of thee I most complain! Blind among enemies, O worse than chains, Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age!

O dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark! total eclipse, Without all hope of day.

These eyes, tho' clear To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot, Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, not bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward.

I have only one eye,--I have a right to be blind sometimes . . . I really do not see the signal!

He that is strucken blind cannot forget The precious treasure of his eyesight lost.

There's none so blind as they that won't see.

And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains--alas! too few.