A Sketch

The blindest buzzard that I know
  Does not wear wings to spread and stir;
  Nor does my special mole wear fur,
And grub among the roots below:
  He sports a tail indeed, but then
  It's to a coat : he's man with men:
    His quill is cut to a pen.

In other points our friend's a mole,
  A buzzard, beyond scope of speech.
  He sees not what's within his reach,
Misreads the part, ignores the whole;
  Misreads the part, so reads in vain,
  Ignores the whole though patent plain,—
    Misreads both parts again.

My blindest buzzard that I know,
  My special mole, when will you see?
  Oh no, you must not look at me,
There's nothing hid for me to show.
  I might show facts as plain as day:
  But, since your eyes are blind, you'd say,
    "Where? What?" and turn away.