I take the liberty of introducing a few poems by blind authors, feeling that they will be appreciated by the public.  Poetry seems to possess peculiar charms for blind people, who, deprived of material sight, seem to love to revel in the beautiful visions presented by the imagination.  Among blind poets and rhymesters there are, of course, as many different grades of merit as among the more favored writers, but the proportion of doggerel writers is fortunately much smaller among the blind, and they cannot so readily inflict their scribbling in such volume on a patient public.  The poems here presented are selected from among a number of the best productions of the best writers.

LUCY A. LITTLE.

I take great pleasure in introducing into these leaves the following simple poem from the pen of Miss Lucy A. Little, a young blind girl, toward whom I have been drawn by deep sympathy and affection.  She was educated in the Wisconsin Institution for the Blind, where she graduated with high honor.

She possesses great personal attractions and much intrinsic merit, being the household pet in the home of her grand-parents; and, as the blind have missions, it seems to have been especially hers to minister to those who regard her with doting fondness, and to whom she is a bright prismatic ray, making the shortening path of the old people radiant with, its light.

A JUNE MORNING.

    Early one morn in leafy June,
    When brooks and birds were all in tune,
    A maiden left her quiet home
    In meadows and in fields to roam. 
    She wandered on, in cheerful mood,
    Through verdant fields and leafy wood. 
    At length she paused to rest awhile
    Upon a little rustic stile. 
    She made a pretty picture there,
    With her bright, curling, golden hair,
    And dress of white, and eyes of blue,
    And ribbons of the self-same hue. 
    And while she sat absorbed in thought,
    A form approached.  She heeded not
    Until a hand was gently laid
    Upon the shoulders of the maid. 
    Then, looking up in sweet surprise,
    She saw a pair of jet-black eyes,
    A perfect form of manly grace,
    A handsome, open, honest face. 
    Then said the maid, in voice so clear: 
    “How did you know that I was here?”
    Said he:  “I sought you at your home,
    They told me you had hither come,
    And so, I came, this bright June day,
    To say what I’ve so longed to say. 
    When first we met in by-gone days,
    You charmed me with your winning ways. 
    Since then the time has quickly flown,
    Each day to me you’ve dearer grown,
    And you can brighten all my life
    If you will but become my wife.” 
    She raised her eyes unto his own,
    And in their depths a new light shone,