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O say, what is that thing called light,
Which I can ne'er enjoy?
What is the blessing 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 now can he
Then make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make
Whenever I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake
With me it were always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I may bear
A loss I never 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.
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