All that rambling about funky senses, Harry Kemp gets it:

The Spring blew trumpets of color;
Her Green sang in my brain —
I heard a blind man groping
“Tap — tap” with his cane;

I pitied him in his blindness;
But can I boast, “I see”?
Perhaps there walks a spirit
Close by, who pities me, —

A spirit who hears me tapping
The five-sensed cane of mind
Amid such unguessed glories —
That I am worse than blind.