O say what is that thing call’d Light,
Which I must ne’er enjoy;
What are the blessings of the sight,
O tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm but how can he,
Or make it day and night?
My day and night myself I make
Whene’er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake
With me tw’ere always day.
With heavy sigh I often hear,
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne’er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy:
Whilst thus I sing I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.
