O, say, what is that thing called 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
Make either day or night?
My day and night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play,
And could I always 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 peace of mind destroy;
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy!