Songs of Innocence and Experience Read Online

The Projection Gutenberg eBook of Songs of Innocence and of Experience, past William Blake

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Title: Songs of Innocence and of Experience

Writer: William Blake

Release Date: October, 1999 [eBook #1934]
[Most recently updated: December 24, 2021]

Language: English

Grapheme set up encoding: UTF-viii

Produced by: David Price

*** START OF THE Project GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF INNOCENCE AND OF EXPERIENCE ***

SONGS OF INNOCENCE
and
OF EXPERIENCE

BY WILLIAM BLAKE

london: r. brimley johnson.
guildford: a. c. curtis.

mdcccci.

CONTENTS

SONGS OF INNOCENCE

Introduction

The Shepherd

The Echoing Greenish

The Lamb

The Little Black Boy

The Blossom

The Chimney-Sweeper

The Picayune Boy Lost

The Picayune Boy Institute

Laughing Vocal

A Cradle Song

The Divine Image

Holy Th

Nighttime

Spring

Nurse's Vocal

Infant Joy

A Dream

On Some other'southward Sorrow

SONGS OF Feel

Introduction

World's Answer

The Clod and the Pebble

Holy Th

The Little Daughter Lost

The Piffling Girl Found

The Chimney-Sweeper

Nurse's Song

The Sick Rose

The Wing

The Affections

The Tiger

My Pretty Rose-Tree

Ah, Sunflower

The Lily

The Garden of Love

The Little Vagabond

London

The Homo Abstract

Baby Sorrow

A Poison Tree

A Little Boy Lost

A Little Girl Lost

A Divine Image

A Cradle Song

To Tirzah

The Schoolboy

The Voice of the Ancient Bard

SONGS OF INNOCENCE

INTRODUCTION

Piping downwards the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:

'Piping a song about a Lamb!'
Then I piped with merry cheer.
'Piper, pipe that vocal over again.'
And so I piped: he wept to hear.

'Drib thy piping, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!'
So I sung the same once again,
While he wept with joy to hear.

'Piper, sit thee downwards and write
In a book, that all may read.'
So he vanished from my sight;
And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water articulate,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every kid may joy to hear.

THE SHEPHERD

How sweet is the shepherd's sweetness lot!
From the morn to the evening he strays;
He shall follow his sheep all the solar day,
And his natural language shall be fillèd with praise.

For he hears the lambs' innocent call,
And he hears the ewes' tender answer;
He is watchful while they are in peace,
For they know when their shepherd is nigh.

THE ECHOING Light-green

The sunday does arise,
And make happy the skies;
The merry bells ring
To welcome the Spring;
The skylark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around
To the bells' cheerful sound;
While our sports shall be seen
On the echoing light-green.

Old John, with white pilus,
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And before long they all say,
'Such, such were the joys
When we all—girls and boys—
In our youth-time were seen
On the echoing green.'

Till the little ones, weary,
No more can be merry:
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end.
Round the laps of their mothers
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are fix for residue,
And sport no more seen
On the darkening green.

THE LAMB

Little lamb, who fabricated thee?
Does thou know who fabricated thee,
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest wear, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Picayune lamb, who made thee?
Does m know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
Little lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is callèd by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are callèd by His name.
Little lamb, God bless thee!
Little lamb, God bless thee!

THE LITTLE Black BOY

My female parent bore me in the southern wild,
And I am blackness, but O my soul is white!
White equally an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of mean solar day,
She took me on her lap and kissèd me,
And, pointing to the East, began to say:

'Await on the ascent lord's day: there God does live,
And gives His low-cal, and gives His heat away,
And flowers and copse and beasts and men receive
Condolement in forenoon, joy in the noonday.

'And we are put on earth a picayune space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of dearest;
And these blackness bodies and this sunburnt face
Are but a cloud, and similar a shady grove.

'For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish, nosotros shall hear His vocalism,
Saying, "Come out from the grove, my dearest and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."'

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me,
And thus I say to little English male child.
When I from black, and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs nosotros joy,

I'll shade him from the oestrus till he can deport
To lean in joy upon our Begetter's knee;
And and then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And exist like him, and he will so honey me.

THE BLOSSOM

Merry, merry sparrow!
Nether leaves so green
A happy bloom
Sees you, swift as arrow,
Seek your cradle narrow,
Almost my bosom.

Pretty, pretty robin!
Nether leaves so green
A happy bloom
Hears you sobbing, sobbing,
Pretty, pretty robin,
Near my bust.

THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while still my tongue
Could scarcely weep 'Weep! weep! weep! weep!'
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There's petty Tom Dacre, who cried when his caput,
That curled like a lamb'south dorsum, was shaved; so I said,
'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head'southward bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.'

And so he was tranquility, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!—
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of blackness.

And by came an angel, who had a brilliant key,
And he opened the coffins, and ready them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They ascension upon clouds, and sport in the current of air:
And the angel told Tom, if he'd exist a skillful male child,
He'd accept God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Though the morning time was common cold, Tom was happy and warm:
Then, if all do their duty, they need not fear impairment.

THE Footling Boy LOST

'Male parent, father, where are you lot going?
O do not walk then fast!
Speak, father, speak to your little boy,
Or else I shall exist lost.'

The night was dark, no male parent was there,
The child was wet with dew;
The mire was deep, and the child did weep,
And away the vapour flew.

THE LITTLE Male child FOUND

The petty boy lost in the lonely fen,
Led past the wandering light,
Began to cry, but God, ever most,
Appeared similar his father, in white.

He kissed the child, and by the hand led,
And to his mother brought,
Who in sorrow stake, through the solitary dale,
Her little boy weeping sought.

LAUGHING Song

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing past;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

When the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene;
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing 'Ha ha he!'

When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and basics is spread:
Come live, and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of 'Ha ha he!'

A CRADLE Vocal

Sweet dreams, form a shade
O'er my lovely infant's caput!
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams
By happy, silent, moony beams!

Sugariness Sleep, with soft down
Weave thy brows an infant crown!
Sweet Sleep, angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child!

Sweetness smiles, in the night
Hover over my delight!
Sweet smiles, mother's smiles,
All the livelong night beguiles.

Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy optics!
Sugariness moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.

Sleep, sleep, happy child!
All creation slept and smiled.
Slumber, sleep, happy sleep,
While o'er thee thy mother weep.

Sugariness babe, in thy face
Holy image I can trace;
Sugariness babe, once like thee
Thy Maker lay, and wept for me:

Wept for me, for thee, for all,
When He was an babe small.
K His prototype always see,
Heavenly face up that smiles on thee!

Smiles on thee, on me, on all,
Who became an baby small;
Baby smiles are His own smiles;
Heaven and earth to peace beguiles.

THE DIVINE Prototype

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
All pray in their distress,
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.

For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
Is God our Begetter honey;
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Dear,
Is man, His child and intendance.

For Mercy has a human eye;
Compassion, a man face up;
And Love, the human class divine:
And Peace the human wearing apparel.

So every man, of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the homo form divine:
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

And all must dear the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew.
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell,
There God is habitation also.

HOLY THURSDAY

'Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
The children walking two and two, in red, and bluish, and green:
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white every bit snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's they similar Thames waters flow.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own.
The hum of multitudes was there, simply multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of petty boys and girls raising their innocent hands.

At present similar a mighty wind they raise to sky the vox 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 yous drive an angel from your door.

NIGHT

The lord's day descending in the W,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven'south high bower,
With silent delight,
Sits and smiles on the night.

Adieu, green fields and happy groves,
Where flocks take took delight,
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves
The anxiety of angels bright;
Unseen, they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and flower,
And each sleeping bosom.

They expect in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from impairment:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They cascade sleep on their head,
And sit down past their bed.

When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and cry;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And go on them from the sheep.
Just, if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.

And there the lion's ruddy eyes
Shall menses with tears of gilt:
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking circular the fold:
Saying: 'Wrath by His meekness,
And, past His health, sickness,
Is driven away
From our immortal day.

'And at present beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and slumber,
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee, and weep.
For, washed in life'south river,
My vivid mane for ever
Shall shine similar the gold,
As I baby-sit o'er the fold.'

SPRING

Sound the flute!
Now it's mute!
Birds delight,
Day and dark,
Nightingale,
In the dale,
Lark in sky,—
Merrily,
Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.

Fiddling boy,
Total of joy;
Little girl,
Sweetness and modest;
Cock does crow,
Then do you;
Merry voice,
Baby noise;
Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.

Niggling lamb,
Here I am;
Come up and lick
My white neck;
Permit me pull
Your soft wool;
Let me kiss
Your soft face;
Merrily, merrily nosotros welcome in the year.

NURSE'S Song

When voices of children are heard on the green,
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My centre is at rest within my breast,
And everything else is all the same.

'Then come abode, my children, the sun is gone down,
And the dews of dark ascend;
Come, come, go out off play, and permit us away,
Till the morning appears in the skies.'

'No, no, permit united states play, for information technology is however day,
And nosotros cannot go to slumber;
Besides, in the sky the little birds wing,
And the hills are all covered with sheep.'

'Well, well, go and play till the lite fades away,
And then go home to bed.'
The lilliputian ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed,
And all the hills echoèd.

Babe JOY

'I have no proper name;
I am but two days old.'
What shall I call thee?
'I happy am,
Joy is my name.'
Sugariness joy befall thee!

Pretty joy!
Sweet joy, but two days former.
Sweetness joy I call thee:
Thou dost smile,
I sing the while;
Sugariness joy befall thee!

A DREAM

One time a dream did weave a shade
O'er my angel-guarded bed,
That an emmet lost its way
Where on grass methought I lay.

Troubled, wildered, and forlorn,
Dark, benighted, travel-worn,
Over many a tangled spray,
All heart-broke, I heard her say:

'O my children! practise they weep,
Do they hear their father sigh?
At present they look abroad to see,
Now render and cry for me.'

Pitying, I dropped a tear:
Simply I saw a glow-worm near,
Who replied, 'What wailing wight
Calls the watchman of the night?'

'I am set up to light the basis,
While the beetle goes his round:
Follow at present the beetle'south hum;
Trivial wanderer, hie thee home!'

ON ANOTHER'South SORROW

Can I see some other's woe,
And not exist in sorrow too?
Can I see some other's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Tin can I run across a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Tin a begetter run across his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear
An babe groan, an baby fright?
No, no! never tin can information technology exist!
Never, never can it exist!

And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear—

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their chest,
And non sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant'southward tear?

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O no! never can it be!
Never, never can it exist!

He doth give His joy to all:
He becomes an babe small,
He becomes a human being of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Recollect non thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by:
Think not thou canst cry a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

O He gives to us His joy,
That our grief He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled and gone
He doth sit down past usa and moan.

SONGS OF Feel

INTRODUCTION

Hear the voice of the Bard,
Who present, past, and future, sees;
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walked among the ancient trees;

Calling the lapséd soul,
And weeping in the evening dew;
That might command
The starry pole,
And fallen, fallen low-cal renew!

'O Earth, O World, render!
Arise from out the dewy grass!
Night is worn,
And the morn
Rises from the slumbrous mass.

'Plow away no more;
Why wilt yard plough away?
The starry flooring,
The watery shore,
Is given thee till the break of day.'

Globe'S ANSWER

Globe raised up her head
From the darkness dread and drear,
Her light fled,
Stony, dread,
And her locks covered with grey despair.

'Prisoned on watery shore,
Starry jealousy does continue my den
Cold and hoar;
Weeping o'er,
I hear the begetter of the ancient men.

'Selfish male parent of men!
Cruel, jealous, selfish fear!
Can please,
Chained in night,
The virgins of youth and forenoon bear.

'Does jump hide its joy,
When buds and blossoms abound?
Does the sower
Sow past dark,
Or the ploughman in darkness plough?

'Suspension this heavy concatenation,
That does freeze my basic around!
Selfish, vain,
Eternal bane,
That costless love with bondage bound.'

THE CLOD AND THE PEBBLE

'Beloved seeketh not itself to delight,
Nor for itself hath any care,
Simply for some other gives its ease,
And builds a sky in hell'due south despair.'

So sung a piffling clod of clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres run across:

'Beloved seeketh just Cocky to delight,
To demark another to its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven's despite.'

HOLY Thursday

Is this a holy thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land,—
Babes reduced to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous manus?

Is that trembling cry a vocal?
Can it be a song of joy?
And then many children poor?
Information technology is a land of poverty!

And their sunday does never shine,
And their fields are bleak and blank,
And their ways are filled with thorns,
Information technology is eternal wintertime there.

For where'er the lord's day does shine,
And where'er the rain does fall,
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the heed appal.

THE LITTLE Daughter LOST

In time to come
I prophesy
That the world from slumber
(Grave the sentence deep)

Shall arise, and seek
For her Maker meek;
And the desert wild
Become a garden mild.

In the southern clime,
Where the summer's prime
Never fades away,
Lovely Lyca lay.

Seven summers old
Lovely Lyca told.
She had wandered long,
Hearing wild birds' song.

'Sweetness sleep, come to me,
Underneath this tree;
Practice begetter, female parent, weep?
Where can Lyca slumber?

'Lost in desert wild
Is your piffling child.
How can Lyca sleep
If her mother cry?

'If her heart does anguish,
So let Lyca wake;
If my mother sleep,
Lyca shall not weep.

'Frowning, frowning nighttime,
O'er this desert bright
Allow thy moon arise,
While I close my eyes.'

Sleeping Lyca lay,
While the beasts of prey,
Come from caverns deep,
Viewed the maid asleep.

The kingly lion stood,
And the virgin viewed:
Then he gambolled round
O'er the hallowed ground.

Leopards, tigers, play
Round her every bit she lay;
While the panthera leo old
Bowed his mane of gilt,

And her bosom lick,
And upon her cervix,
From his eyes of flame,
Ruby tears at that place came;

While the lioness
Loosed her slender apparel,
And naked they conveyed
To caves the sleeping maid.

THE Piffling GIRL Found

All the night in woe
Lyca's parents go
Over valleys deep,
While the deserts weep.

Tired and woe-begone,
Hoarse with making moan,
Arm in arm, seven days
They traced the desert ways.

7 nights they sleep
Among shadows deep,
And dream they encounter their child
Starved in desert wild.

Pale through pathless ways
The fancied image strays,
Famished, weeping, weak,
With hollow piteous shriek.

Rising from unrest,
The trembling adult female pressed
With feet of weary woe;
She could no further go.

In his arms he bore
Her, armed with sorrow sore;
Till before their way
A couching lion lay.

Turning back was vain:
Soon his heavy mane
Bore them to the ground,
And then he stalked around,

Smelling to his prey;
But their fears abate
When he licks their hands,
And silent by them stands.

They expect upon his eyes,
Filled with deep surprise;
And wondering behold
A spirit armed in gold.

On his head a crown,
On his shoulders down
Flowed his gold pilus.
Gone was all their care.

'Follow me,' he said;
'Weep not for the maid;
In my palace deep,
Lyca lies asleep.'

Then they followèd
Where the vision led,
And saw their sleeping kid
Among tigers wild.

To this day they dwell
In a alone dell,
Nor fright the wolvish howl
Nor the lion'south growl.

THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER

A lilliputian blackness thing among the snow,
Crying! 'weep! weep!' in notes of woe!
'Where are thy male parent and mother? Say!'—
'They are both gone up to the church to pray.

'Considering I was happy upon the heath,
And smiled amongst the winter's snow,
They clothed me in the clothes of decease,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

'And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They call back they have done me no injury,
And are gone to praise God and His priest and king,
Who made up a heaven of our misery.'

NURSE'S Vocal

When the voices of children are heard on the green,
And whisperings are in the dale,
The days of my youth rising fresh in my listen,
My face turns greenish and pale.

Then come up dwelling, my children, the sun is gone down,
And the dews of dark arise;
Your spring and your day are wasted in play,
And your winter and night in disguise.

THE SICK ROSE

O rose, thou fine art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has plant out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark hush-hush love
Does thy life destroy.

THE FLY

Piffling Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or fine art not grand
A man like me?

For I trip the light fantastic toe,
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind manus
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of idea is expiry;

Then am I
A happy wing.
If I alive,
Or if I die.

THE Angel

I dreamt a dream! What can it mean?
And that I was a maiden Queen
Guarded past an Affections balmy:
Witless woe was ne'er beguiled!

And I wept both night and solar day,
And he wiped my tears away;
And I wept both twenty-four hour period and night,
And hid from him my heart'south please.

So he took his wings, and fled;
And then the morning time blushed rosy red.
I dried my tears, and armed my fears
With ten thousand shields and spears.

Soon my Angel came again;
I was armed, he came in vain;
For the time of youth was fled,
And grey hairs were on my head.

THE TIGER

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what afar deeps or skies
Burnt the burn down of thine eyes?
On what wings cartel he aspire?
What the hand cartel seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy eye 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 grasp
Cartel its mortiferous terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He grin His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning vivid
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

MY PRETTY ROSE TREE

A flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said, 'I've a pretty rose tree,'
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.

Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night;
Simply my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.

AH, SUNFLOWER

Ah, sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sunday;
Seeking afterwards that sugariness gilt clime
Where the traveller's journeying is done;

Where the Youth pined abroad with want,
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sunflower wishes to get!

THE LILY

The minor Rose puts forth a thorn,
The apprehensive sheep a threat'ning horn:
While the Lily white shall in love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

THE GARDEN OF LOVE

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen;
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And 'K shalt not' writ over the door;
And then I turned to the Garden of Love
That and then many sugariness flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And bounden with briars my joys and desires.

THE Trivial VAGABOND

Dear mother, dearest mother, the Church is cold;
But the Alehouse is good for you, and pleasant, and warm.
Besides, I tin tell where I am used well;
Such usage in heaven will never exercise well.

But, if at the Church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant burn our souls to regale,
We'd sing and we'd pray all the livelong day,
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.

Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
And we'd exist as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church building,
Would not take bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.

And God, similar a begetter, rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy equally He,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
But osculation him, and give him both drink and apparel.

LONDON

I wander through each chartered street,
Nearly where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I come across,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every human being,
In every infant's weep of fear,
In every vocalisation, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church building appals,
And the hapless soldier'southward sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But virtually, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot'due south expletive
Blasts the new-built-in infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.

THE Human Abstract

Pity would be no more than
If we did not make somebody poor,
And Mercy no more could be
If all were as happy as we.

And mutual fearfulness brings Peace,
Till the selfish loves increase;
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care.

He sits down with holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears;
And so Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot.

Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head,
And the caterpillar and wing
Feed on the Mystery.

And information technology bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat,
And the raven his nest has made
In its thickest shade.

The gods of the earth and body of water
Sought through nature to notice this tree,
But their search was all in vain:
There grows one in the man Encephalon.

Infant SORROW

My mother groaned, my father wept:
Into the dangerous world I leapt,
Helpless, naked, pipage loud,
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Struggling in my father'southward hands,
Striving confronting my swaddling bands,
Leap and weary, I thought best
To sulk upon my female parent'south chest.

A Poisonous substance TREE

I was aroused with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did terminate.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears
Dark and morning with my tears,
And I sunnèd information technology with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and nighttime,
Till it bore an apple vivid,
And my foe beheld it smooth,
And he knew that information technology was mine,—

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the forenoon, glad, I see
My foe outstretched below the tree.

A LITTLE BOY LOST

'Nought loves another equally itself,
Nor venerates some other so,
Nor is information technology possible to thought
A greater than itself to know.

'And, male parent, how tin I love you
Or any of my brothers more?
I love you lot like the fiddling bird
That picks up crumbs around the door.'

The Priest saturday past and heard the kid;
In trembling zeal he seized his hair,
He led him by his little coat,
And all admired his priestly intendance.

And continuing on the chantry loftier,
'Lo, what a fiend is here!' said he:
'One who sets reason up for judge
Of our most holy mystery.'

The weeping child could not be heard,
The weeping parents wept in vain:
They stripped him to his little shirt,
And bound him in an iron chain,

And burned him in a holy identify
Where many had been burned before;
The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such things done on Albion's shore?

A LITTLE GIRL LOST

Children of the futurity age,
Reading this indignant page,
Know that in a quondam time
Love, sweet dearest, was thought a crime.

In the age of gilded,
Gratis from wintertime'southward cold,
Youth and maiden bright,
To the holy light,
Naked in the sunny beams delight.

Once a youthful pair,
Filled with softest care,
Met in garden brilliant
Where the holy light
Had simply removed the curtains of the night.

In that location, in ascent day,
On the grass they play;
Parents were afar,
Strangers came not about,
And the maiden soon forgot her fear.

Tired with kisses sugariness,
They concur to run across
When the silent slumber
Waves o'er heaven'due south deep,
And the weary tired wanderers weep.

To her father white
Came the maiden brilliant;
Merely his loving look,
Like the holy volume,
All her tender limbs with terror shook.

Ona, pale and weak,
To thy begetter speak!
O the trembling fear!
O the dismal care
That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair!'

A DIVINE Epitome

Cruelty has a human heart,
And Jealousy a human being face up;
Terror the human form divine,
And Secrecy the human dress.

The human dress is forgèd atomic number 26,
The homo class a fiery forge,
The homo face a furnace sealed,
The human heart its hungry gorge.

A CRADLE SONG

Sleep, sleep, beauty vivid,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Niggling sorrows sit down and cry.

Sweet infant, in thy confront
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and undercover smiles,
Little pretty babe wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steal
O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
Where thy lilliputian eye doth residue.

O the cunning wiles that creep
In thy piffling center asleep!
When thy piddling heart doth wake,
So the dreadful light shall break.

TO TIRZAH

Whate'er is born of mortal birth
Must be consumèd with the earth,
To rise from generation free:
Then what take I to do with thee?

The sexes sprung from shame and pride,
Blowed in the morn, in evening died;
Merely mercy changed death into sleep;
The sexes rose to piece of work and weep.

1000, mother of my mortal part,
With cruelty didst mould my centre,
And with false self-deceiving tears
Didst blind my nostrils, eyes, and ears,

Didst shut my tongue in senseless clay,
And me to mortal life betray.
The expiry of Jesus set me free:
And then what have I to practise with thee?

THE SCHOOLBOY

I love to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every tree;
The afar huntsman winds his horn,
And the skylark sings with me:
O what sweet company!

But to get to school in a summer morning,—
O it drives all joy away!
Under a cruel heart outworn,
The niggling ones spend the 24-hour interval
In sighing and dismay.

Ah so at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an broken-hearted hour;
Nor in my volume tin can I have delight,
Nor sit in learning'southward bower,
Worn through with the dreary shower.

How tin the bird that is born for joy
Sit in a muzzle and sing?
How can a child, when fears annoy,
Only droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring!

O male parent and mother if buds are nipped,
And blossoms blown abroad;
And if the tender plants are stripped
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and care'due south dismay,—

How shall the summer ascend in joy,
Or the summer fruits appear?
Or how shall we assemble what griefs destroy,
Or bless the mellowing yr,
When the blasts of winter announced?

THE Voice OF THE Aboriginal BARD

Youth of delight! come hither
And see the opening morn,
Image of Truth new-born.
Dubiousness is fled, and clouds of reason,
Dark disputes and aesthetic teazing.
Folly is an countless maze;
Tangled roots perplex her ways;
How many have fallen there!
They stumble all night over bones of the dead;
And feel—they know not what only care;
And wish to lead others, when they should be led.

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