Classic Poem

O 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!