Poems of William Blake | Page 4

and usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It
is a land of poverty!
And their son does never shine,
And their fields are bleak and bare,
And their ways

are filled with thorns:
It is eternal winter there.
For where'er the sun does shine,
And where'er the rain does fall,
Babes should never
hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
THE LITTLE GIRL LOST
In futurity
I prophetic see
That the earth from sleep
(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.
"Sweet sleep, come to me
Underneath this tree;
Do father, mother, weep?
Where
can Lyca sleep?
"Lost in desert wild
Is your little child.
How can Lyca sleep
If her mother weep?
"If her heart does ache,
Then let Lyca wake;
If my mother sleep,
Lyca shall not
weep.
"Frowning, frowning night,
O'er this desert bright
Let 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 as she lay;
While the lion old
Bowed his mane of
gold,
And her breast did lick

And upon her neck,
From his eyes of flame,
Ruby tears
there came;
While the lioness
Loosed her slender dress,
And naked they conveyed
To caves the
sleeping maid.
THE LITTLE 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.
Seven nights they sleep
Among shadows deep,
And dream they see 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 woman presse
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,
Then he
stalked around,
Smelling to his prey;
But their fears allay
When he licks their hands,
And silent by
them stands.
They look 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 golden hair.
Gone was all
their care.
"Follow me," he said;
"Weep not for the maid;
In my palace deep,
Lyca lies asleep."
Then they followed
Where the vision led,
And saw their sleeping child
Among
tigers wild.
To this day they dwell
In a lonely dell,
Nor fear the wolvish howl
Nor the lion's
growl.
THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER

A little black thing in the snow,
Crying "weep! weep!" in notes of woe!
"Where are
thy father and mother? Say!"--
"They are both gone up to the church to pray.
"Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smiled among the winter's snow,
They
clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.
"And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury,


And are gone to praise God and his priest and king,
Who make up a heaven of our
misery."
NURSE'S SONG
When voices of children are heard on the green,
And whisperings are in the dale,
The
days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,
My face turns green and pale.
Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,
And the dews of night arise;

Your spring and your day are wasted in play,
And your winter and night in disguise.
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.
THE FLY
Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength and breath
And the want
Of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.
THE ANGEL
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.
THE TIGER

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

Could Frame thy fearful symmetry?
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,