John Erhardt writes in his blog, "The Skeptic," about a poem he found in the New Yorker, by former New Yorker poetry editor Howard Moss:

"Moss’ poem is called “To My Friend Born Blind.” My objection to it is not that it’s written poorly or that I don’t have a blind friend and so can’t relate; my objection is that the imagery is exactly what we’d expect in a poem called “To My Friend Born Blind.” Images like “useless as a mirror,” or “useful as a dog with bells around its neck,” or “since childhood it was an act of faith / to believe the sun and moon were in the sky.” It doesn’t tell me anything I don’t already know about being blind – namely, it tells me that someone who is blind cannot see. The poem is simply a collection of truisms."

Exactly right. Plus: blind people don't really doubt whether the sun is shining or not. They can feel the heat on their faces like anyone else! I read the same poem, but quit reading before finishing the poem.