Poems of William Blake | Page 5

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?
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;
But 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 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!
THE LILY
The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble 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 laid me down upon a bank,
Where Love lay sleeping;
I heard among the rushes dank

Weeping, weeping.
Then I went to the heath and the wild,

To the thistles and thorns of the waste;
And

they told me how they were beguiled,
Driven out, and compelled to the chaste.
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 "Thou shalt not," writ over the door;
So I
turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet 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 binding with briars my joys and
desires.
THE LITTLE VAGABOND
Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold;
But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant,
and warm.
Besides, I can tell where I am used well;
The poor parsons with wind like
a blown bladder swell.
But, if at the Church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant fire 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 be as happy as birds in
the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
Would not have bandy
children, nor fasting, nor birch.
And God, like a father, rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as he,

Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
But kiss him, and give him
both drink and apparel.
LONDON
I wandered through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,

A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,

The mind-forged manacles I hear:
How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless
soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.
But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the
new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.
THE HUMAN ABSTRACT

Pity would be no more
If we did not make somebody poor,
And Mercy no more could
be
If all were as happy as we.
And mutual fear brings Peace,
Till the selfish loves increase
Then Cruelty knits a
snare,
And spreads his baits with care.
He sits down with his holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears;
Then Humility
takes its root
Underneath his foot.
Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head,
And the caterpillar and fly

Feed on the Mystery.
And it 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 sea
Sought through nature to find this tree,
But their search
was all in vain:
There grows one in the human Brain.
INFANT SORROW
My mother groaned, my father wept:
Into the dangerous world I leapt,
Helpless,
naked, piping loud,
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
Struggling in my father's hands,
Striving against my swaddling-bands,
Bound and
weary, I thought best
To sulk upon my mother's breast.
A POISON TREE
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my
foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with
smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it
shine,
and he knew that it was mine, --
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I