O say what is that thing called Light,
Which I must never enjoy;
What are the blessings of the sight,
O tell your poor blind Boy!
You talk of wondrous thing 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
Whenever 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 never can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy;
Whilist thus I sing, Iam a King,
Although a poor blind Boy
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
you're rich at heart.......wonderful piece....i liked it.