The Blind Boy

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 or night?
My day or night myself I make
Whene’er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake
With me ’twere always day
With heavy sighs 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