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

Make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make

Where'er I sleep or play;

And could I ever keep awake

With me t'were 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.