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? 0, 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 'twere always day. With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe: But sure with patience | 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, l am a king. Although a poor blind boy.