O say what is that thing call'd Light, Which I 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 no what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy: Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE DEATH OF MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH by WILLIAM COWPER A NEW EARTH by WILLIAM ARTHUR DUNKERLEY HER DILEMMA; IN CHURCH by THOMAS HARDY THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 49. WILLOWWOOD (1) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI CIRCUMSTANCE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH CYNTHIA RETURNED FROM THE COUNTRY by PHILIP AYRES TO W.A. AND H.H. ON THEIR DEPARTURE TO EUROPE by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 33 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |