Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd, sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

THE BLIND BOY

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?