Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he’d call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love’s austere and lonely offices?
The Blind Boy By: Colley Cibber O say what is that thing call’d 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 Whene’re I sleep or play; And could I ever keep awake With me ‘twer 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.