William Blake
¶[1757-1827]
The Tiger
¶TIGER, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?
¶In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire?
¶And what shoulder and what artCould twist the sinews of thy heart?And, when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand and what dread feet?
¶What the hammer? What the chain?In what furnace was thy brain ?What the anvil ? What dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?
¶When the stars threw down their spears,And water'd heaven with their tears,Did He smile His work to see?Did He who made the lamb make thee?
¶Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,[584]What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Ah! Sun-flower
¶AH, sun-flower! weary of time,Who countest the steps of the Sun;Seeking after that sweet golden clime,Where the traveller's journey is done;
¶Where the Youth pined away with desire,And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow,Arise from their graves, and aspireWhere my sun-flower wishes to go.
To SPRING
¶O THOU with dewy locks, who lookest downThrough the clear windows of the morning, turnThine angel eyes upon our western isle,Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
¶The hills tell one another, and the listeningValleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'dUp to thy bright pavilions: issue forthAnd let thy holy feet visit our clime!
¶Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our windsKiss thy perfumed garments; let us tasteThy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearlsUpon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
¶O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pourThy soft kisses on her bosom; and putThy golden crown upon her languish'd head,Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.
Reeds of Innocence
¶PIPING down the valleys wild,Piping songs of pleasant glee,On a cloud I saw a child,And he laughing said to me:[585]'Pipe a song about a Lamb!'So I piped with merry cheer.'Piper, pipe that song again;'So I piped: he wept to hear.
¶'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;Sing thy songs of happy cheer!'So I sung the same again,While he wept with joy to hear.
¶'Piper, sit thee down and writeIn a book that all may read.'So he vanish'd from my sight;And I pluck'd a hollow reed,
¶And I made a rural pen,And I stain'd the water clear,And I wrote my happy songsEvery child may joy to hear.
Night
¶THE sun descending in the west,The evening star does shine;The birds are silent in their nest,And I must seek for mine.The moon, like a flowerIn heaven's high bower,With silent delightSits and smiles on the night.
¶Farewell, green fields and happy grove,Where flocks have took delight:Where lambs have nibbled, silent moveThe feet of angels bright;Unseen they pour blessingAnd joy without ceasingOn each bud and blossom,On each sleeping bosom.[586]They look in every thoughtless nestWhere birds are cover'd warm;They visit caves of every beast,To keep them all from harm:If they see any weepingThat should have been sleeping,They pour sleep on their head,And sit down by their bed.
¶When wolves and tigers howl for prey,They pitying stand and weep,Seeking to drive their thirst awayAnd keep them from the sheep.But, if they rush dreadful,The angels, most heedful,Receive each mild spirit,New worlds to inherit.
¶And there the lion's ruddy eyesShall flow with tears of gold:And pitying the tender cries,And walking round the fold:Saying, 'Wrath by His meekness,And, by His health, sickness,Are driven awayFrom our immortal day.
¶'And now beside thee, bleatingI can lie down and sleep,Or think on Him who bore thyGraze after thee, and weep.For, wash'd in life's river,My bright mane for everShall shine like the goldAs I guard o'er the fold.'
Auguries of Innocence
¶To see a world in a grain of sand,And a heaven in a wild flower,Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,And eternity in an hour.[587]A robin redbreast in a cagePuts all heaven in a rage.A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeonsShudders hell thro' all its regions.A dog starv'd at his master's gatePredicts the ruin of the state.A horse misused upon the roadCalls to heaven for human blood.Each outcry of the hunted hareA fibre from the brain does tear.A skylark wounded in the wing,A cherubim does cease to sing.The game-cock dipt and arm'd for fightDoes the rising sun affright.
p. 587¶Every wolf's and lion's howlRaises from hell a human soul.The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,Keeps the human soul from care.The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,And yet forgives the butcher's knife.The bat that flits at close of eveHas left the brain that won't believe.The owl that calls upon the nightSpeaks the unbeliever's fright.He who shall hurt the little wrenShall never be belov'd by men.He who the ox to wrath has mov'dShall never be by woman lov'd.The wanton boy that kills the flyShall feel the spider's enmity.He who torments the chafer's spriteWeaves a bower in endless night.The caterpillar on the leafRepeats to thee thy mother's grief.Kill not the moth nor butterfly,For the last judgment draweth nigh.He who shall train the horse to warShall never pass the polar bar.The beggar's dog and widow's cat,[588]Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.The gnat that sings his summer's songPoison gets from slander's tongue.The poison of the snake and newtIs the sweat of envy's foot.The poison of the honey beeIs the artist's jealousy.
¶The prince's robes and beggar's ragsAre toadstools on the miser's bags.A truth that's told with bad intentBeats all the lies you can invent.It is right it should be so;Man was made for joy and woe;And when this we rightly know,Thro' the world we safely go.Joy and woe are woven fine,A clothing for the soul divine.Under every grief and pineRuns a joy with silken twine.The babe is more than swaddling bands;Throughout all these human landsTools were made, and born were hands,Every farmer understands.Every tear from every eyeBecomes a babe in eternity;This is caught by females bright,And return'd to its own delight.The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.The babe that weeps the rod beneathWrites revenge in realms of death.The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,Does to rags the heavens tear.The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun,Palsied strikes the summer's sun.The poor man's farthing is worth moreThan all the gold on Afric's shore.One mite wrung from the lab'rer's handsShall buy and sell the miser's lands;[589]Or, if protected from on high,Does that whole nation sell and buy.He who mocks the infant's faithShall be mock'd in age and death.He who shall teach the child to doubtThe rotting grave shall ne'er get out.He who respects the infant's faithTriumphs over hell and death.The child's toys and the old man's reasonsAre the fruits of the two seasons.The questioner, who sits so sly,Shall never know how to reply.He who replies to words of doubtDoth put the light of knowledge out.The strongest poison ever knownCame from Caesar's laurel crown.Nought can deform the human raceLike to the armour's iron brace.When gold and gems adorn the plow,To peaceful arts shall envy bow.A riddle, or the cricket's cry,Is to doubt a fit reply.The emmet's inch and eagle's mileMake lame philosophy to smile.He who doubts from what he seesWill ne'er believe, do what you please.If the sun and moon should doubt,They'd immediately go out.To be in a passion you good may do,But no good if a passion is in you.The whore and gambler, by the stateLicensed, build that nation's fate.The harlot's cry from street to streetShall weave old England's winding-sheet.The winner's shout, the loser's curse,Dance before dead England's hearse.Every night and every mornSome to misery are born,Every morn and every nightSome are born to sweet delight.[590]Some are born to sweet delight,Some are born to endless night.We are led to believe a lieWhen we see not thro' the eye,Which was born in a night to perish in a night,When the soul slept in beams of light.God appears, and God is light,To those poor souls who dwell in night;But does a human form displayTo those who dwell in realms of day.
Nurse's Song
¶WHEN the voices of children are heard on the green,And laughing is heard on the hill,My heart is at rest within my breast,And everything else is still.
¶'Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,And the dews of night arise;Come, come, leave off play, and let us awayTill the morning appears in the skies.'
¶'No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,And we cannot go to sleep;Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,And the hills are all cover'd with sheep.'
¶'Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,And then go home to bed.'The little ones leaped and shouted and laugh'dAnd all the hills echoed.
Holy Thursday
¶'TWAS on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
¶The children walking two and two, in red and blue and green,
¶Grey headed beadles walk'd before, with wands as white as snow, Till unto the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters flow. O what a multitude they seem'd, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies, they sit with radiance all their own.
p. 591¶The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.
¶Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among.Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor;Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
The Divine Image
¶To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and LoveAll pray in their distress;And to these virtues of delightReturn their thankfulness.
¶For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and LoveIs God, our father dear,And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and LoveIs Man, his child and care.
¶For Mercy has a human heart,Pity a human face,And Love, the human form divine,And Peace, the human dress.
¶Then every man, of every clime,That prays in his distress,Prays to the human form divine,Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.
¶And all must love the human form,In heathen, Turk, or Jew;Where Mercy, Love and Pity dwell,There God is dwelling too.
Song
¶FRESH from the dewy hill, the merry yearSmiles on my head and mounts his flaming car;Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade,And rising glories beam around my head.[592]My feet are wing'd, while o'er the dewy lawn,I meet my maiden risen like the morn:Oh bless those holy feet, like angel's feet;Oh bless those limbs, beaming with heav'nly light.
¶Like as an angel glitt'ring in the skyIn times of innocence and holy joy;The joyful shepherd stops his grateful songTo hear the music of an angel's tongue.
¶So when she speaks, the voice of heaven I hear;So when we walk, nothing impure comes near;Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat,Each village seems the haunt of holy feet.
¶But that sweet village where my black-ey'd maidCloses her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade,Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fireBurns in my soul, and does my song inspire.