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 how can heThen make it day or night?My day or night myself I makeWhene’er I sleep or play;And could I ever keep awakeWith me ’twere always day.With heavy sighs I often hearYou mourn my hapless woe;But sure with patience I may bearA loss I ne’er know.Then let not what I cannot haveMy cheer of mind destroy;Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,Although a poor blind boy.The Blind Boy