For me, I enjoyed it by God's grace, and it has not forsaken me: no, not when darkness overtook and shut me out of the profession I loved.

I cannot see the colour of this wine, nor the face of this my daughter, nor my garden, yonder, full of flowers." "Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine--" "Yet memory returns and consoles my blindness.

The colour of the wine is there, the flowers are about me, and Isabel--I am told-- resembles her mother.

Yes, and away on the edge of Spain, the army I served is planting fresh laurels--my old regiment too, the King's Own, though James Brooks is by this time scarcely a name to it.
Here I sit, hale in wind and limb, and old age creeps on me kindly, telling me that no man is necessary.

And yet, if God should come and lay a command on me--some task that a blind man might undertake--I am at God's service.