Oh, say what is that thing called light, Which I can ne'er enjoy? What is the blessing 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 he Then make it day or night? My day or night myself I make, Whene'er I wake or play; And could I ever keep awake, It would be always day. With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hopeless woe. But sure with patience I may 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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CENSUS-TAKER by ROBERT FROST THE INDIAN EMPEROR: SONG by JOHN DRYDEN ULTIMA THULE: MY CATHEDRAL by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW FOREIGN LANDS by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON THE EPITAPH IN FORM OF A BALLAD by FRANCOIS VILLON ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 6. TO WILLIAM HALL, ESQ., WITH THE WORKS OF CHAULIEU by MARK AKENSIDE |