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.