The Blind Boy

O say, what is that thing called 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
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make
When’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 not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy;
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.

C. Cibber

(Entry in 1956 in a poetry competition for 12 to 15 year olds)