Blind Boy

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 wond'rous things you see, You say, the sun shines bright; I feel him warm; but how can be Or make it day or night? My day or night myself I make, When'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.