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.