His breast is love's all-worshipped tomb,
Where all love's pilgrims come.

Whether in heaven ye wander fair,
Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air

Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,

Beneath the bosom of the sea
Wandering in many a coral grove :
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry,

How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoyed in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.

William Blake.

309

A SONG OF SINGING

PIPING down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,

And he laughing said to me :

'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 sang the same again,

While he wept with joy to hear.

'Piper, sit thee down 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 clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

William Blake.

310

THE SICK ROSE

O ROSE, thou art sick!

The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,

In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy,

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

311

THE ANGEL

William Blake.

I DREAMT a dream! What can it mean?
And that I was a maiden Queen
Guarded by an Angel mild:
Witless woe was ne'er beguiled!

And I wept both night and day,
And he wiped my tears away;
And I wept both day and night,
And hid from him my heart's delight.

So he took his wings, and fled.
Then the morn 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.

William Blake.

312

THE TIGER

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

S

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could 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 grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

313

THE SUNFLOWER

William Blake.

AH! Sunflower, 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 aspire

Where my Sunflower wishes to go!

314

CRADLE

SONG

William Blake.

SLEEP, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night!

Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep

Little sorrows sit and weep.

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

As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steal
O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.

O, the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful light shall break.

315

OF A' THE

AIRTS

William Blake.

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west,

For there the bonie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best:

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And monie a hill between,

But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair.

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air.

There's not a bonie flower that springs

By fountain, shaw, or green,

There's not a bonie bird that sings,

But minds me o' my Jean.

Robert Burns.

We are na fou, we're no that fou,
But just a drappie in our ee:
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And aye we'll taste the barley bree.