{"id":156,"date":"2021-06-07T12:55:30","date_gmt":"2021-06-07T16:55:30","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.ryerson.ca\/poetryandpoetics\/?post_type=chapter&p=156"},"modified":"2022-01-14T12:42:47","modified_gmt":"2022-01-14T17:42:47","slug":"william-blake-songs-of-experience","status":"publish","type":"chapter","link":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/poetryandpoetics\/chapter\/william-blake-songs-of-experience\/","title":{"raw":"William Blake: Songs of Experience","rendered":"William Blake: Songs of Experience"},"content":{"raw":"

Introduction<\/h1>\r\nHear the voice of the Bard,\r\nWho present, past, and future, sees;\r\nWhose ears have heard\r\nThe Holy Word\r\nThat walked among the ancient trees;\r\n\r\nCalling the laps\u00e9d soul,\r\nAnd weeping in the evening dew;\r\nThat might control\r\nThe starry pole,\r\nAnd fallen, fallen light renew!\r\n\r\n\u2018O Earth, O Earth, return!\r\nArise from out the dewy grass!\r\nNight is worn,\r\nAnd the morn\r\nRises from the slumbrous mass.\r\n\r\n\u2018Turn away no more;\r\nWhy wilt thou turn away?\r\nThe starry floor,\r\nThe watery shore,\r\nIs given thee till the break of day.\u2019\r\n

Earth's Answer<\/h1>\r\nEarth raised up her head\r\nFrom the darkness dread and drear,\r\nHer light fled,\r\nStony, dread,\r\nAnd her locks covered with grey despair.\r\n\r\n\u2018Prisoned on watery shore,\r\nStarry jealousy does keep my den\r\nCold and hoar;\r\nWeeping o\u2019er,\r\nI hear the father of the ancient men.\r\n\r\n\u2018Selfish father of men!\r\nCruel, jealous, selfish fear!\r\nCan delight,\r\nChained in night,\r\nThe virgins of youth and morning bear.\r\n\r\n\u2018Does spring hide its joy,\r\nWhen buds and blossoms grow?\r\nDoes the sower\r\nSow by night,\r\nOr the ploughman in darkness plough?\r\n\r\n\u2018Break this heavy chain,\r\nThat does freeze my bones around!\r\nSelfish, vain,\r\nEternal bane,\r\nThat free love with bondage bound.\u2019\r\n

The Clod and the Pebble<\/h1>\r\n\u2018Love seeketh not itself to please,\r\nNor for itself hath any care,\r\nBut for another gives its ease,\r\nAnd builds a heaven in hell\u2019s despair.\u2019\r\n\r\nSo sung a little clod of clay,\r\nTrodden with the cattle\u2019s feet,\r\nBut a pebble of the brook\r\nWarbled out these metres meet:\r\n\r\n\u2018Love seeketh only Self to please,\r\nTo bind another to its delight,\r\nJoys in another\u2019s loss of ease,\r\nAnd builds a hell in heaven\u2019s despite.\u2019\r\n

Holy Thursday<\/h1>\r\nIs this a holy thing to see\r\nIn a rich and fruitful land,\u2014\r\nBabes reduced to misery,\r\nFed with cold and usurous hand?\r\n\r\nIs that trembling cry a song?\r\nCan it be a song of joy?\r\nAnd so many children poor?\r\nIt is a land of poverty!\r\n\r\nAnd their sun does never shine,\r\nAnd their fields are bleak and bare,\r\nAnd their ways are filled with thorns,\r\nIt is eternal winter there.\r\n\r\nFor where\u2019er the sun does shine,\r\nAnd where\u2019er the rain does fall,\r\nBabe can never hunger there,\r\nNor poverty the mind appal.\r\n

The Little Girl Lost<\/h1>\r\nIn futurity\r\nI prophesy\r\nThat the earth from sleep\r\n(Grave the sentence deep)\r\n\r\nShall arise, and seek\r\nFor her Maker meek;\r\nAnd the desert wild\r\nBecome a garden mild.\r\n\r\nIn the southern clime,\r\nWhere the summer\u2019s prime\r\nNever fades away,\r\nLovely Lyca lay.\r\n\r\nSeven summers old\r\nLovely Lyca told.\r\nShe had wandered long,\r\nHearing wild birds\u2019 song.\r\n\r\n\u2018Sweet sleep, come to me,\r\nUnderneath this tree;\r\nDo father, mother, weep?\r\nWhere can Lyca sleep?\r\n\r\n\u2018Lost in desert wild\r\nIs your little child.\r\nHow can Lyca sleep\r\nIf her mother weep?\r\n\r\n\u2018If her heart does ache,\r\nThen let Lyca wake;\r\nIf my mother sleep,\r\nLyca shall not weep.\r\n\r\n\u2018Frowning, frowning night,\r\nO\u2019er this desert bright\r\nLet thy moon arise,\r\nWhile I close my eyes.\u2019\r\n\r\nSleeping Lyca lay,\r\nWhile the beasts of prey,\r\nCome from caverns deep,\r\nViewed the maid asleep.\r\n\r\nThe kingly lion stood,\r\nAnd the virgin viewed:\r\nThen he gambolled round\r\nO\u2019er the hallowed ground.\r\n\r\nLeopards, tigers, play\r\nRound her as she lay;\r\nWhile the lion old\r\nBowed his mane of gold,\r\n\r\nAnd her bosom lick,\r\nAnd upon her neck,\r\nFrom his eyes of flame,\r\nRuby tears there came;\r\n\r\nWhile the lioness\r\nLoosed her slender dress,\r\nAnd naked they conveyed\r\nTo caves the sleeping maid.\r\n

The Little Girl Found<\/h1>\r\nAll the night in woe\r\nLyca\u2019s parents go\r\nOver valleys deep,\r\nWhile the deserts weep.\r\n\r\nTired and woe-begone,\r\nHoarse with making moan,\r\nArm in arm, seven days\r\nThey traced the desert ways.\r\n\r\nSeven nights they sleep\r\nAmong shadows deep,\r\nAnd dream they see their child\r\nStarved in desert wild.\r\n\r\nPale through pathless ways\r\nThe fancied image strays,\r\nFamished, weeping, weak,\r\nWith hollow piteous shriek.\r\n\r\nRising from unrest,\r\nThe trembling woman pressed\r\nWith feet of weary woe;\r\nShe could no further go.\r\n\r\nIn his arms he bore\r\nHer, armed with sorrow sore;\r\nTill before their way\r\nA couching lion lay.\r\n\r\nTurning back was vain:\r\nSoon his heavy mane\r\nBore them to the ground,\r\nThen he stalked around,\r\n\r\nSmelling to his prey;\r\nBut their fears allay\r\nWhen he licks their hands,\r\nAnd silent by them stands.\r\n\r\nThey look upon his eyes,\r\nFilled with deep surprise;\r\nAnd wondering behold\r\nA spirit armed in gold.\r\n\r\nOn his head a crown,\r\nOn his shoulders down\r\nFlowed his golden hair.\r\nGone was all their care.\r\n\r\n\u2018Follow me,\u2019 he said;\r\n\u2018Weep not for the maid;\r\nIn my palace deep,\r\nLyca lies asleep.\u2019\r\n\r\nThen they follow\u00e8d\r\nWhere the vision led,\r\nAnd saw their sleeping child\r\nAmong tigers wild.\r\n\r\nTo this day they dwell\r\nIn a lonely dell,\r\nNor fear the wolvish howl\r\nNor the lion\u2019s growl.\r\n

The Chimney-Sweeper<\/h1>\r\nA little black thing among the snow,\r\nCrying! \u2018weep! weep!\u2019 in notes of woe!\r\n\u2018Where are thy father and mother? Say!\u2019\u2014\r\n\u2018They are both gone up to the church to pray.\r\n\r\n\u2018Because I was happy upon the heath,\r\nAnd smiled among the winter\u2019s snow,\r\nThey clothed me in the clothes of death,\r\nAnd taught me to sing the notes of woe.\r\n\r\n\u2018And because I am happy and dance and sing,\r\nThey think they have done me no injury,\r\nAnd are gone to praise God and His priest and king,\r\nWho made up a heaven of our misery.\u2019\r\n

Nurse's Song<\/h1>\r\nWhen the voices of children are heard on the green,\r\nAnd whisperings are in the dale,\r\nThe days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,\r\nMy face turns green and pale.\r\n\r\nThen come home, my children, the sun is gone down,\r\nAnd the dews of night arise;\r\nYour spring and your day are wasted in play,\r\nAnd your winter and night in disguise.\r\n

The Sick Rose<\/h1>\r\nO rose, thou art sick!\r\nThe invisible worm,\r\nThat flies in the night,\r\nIn the howling storm,\r\n\r\nHas found out thy bed\r\nOf crimson joy,\r\nAnd his dark secret love\r\nDoes thy life destroy.\r\n

The Fly<\/h1>\r\nLittle Fly,\r\nThy summer\u2019s play\r\nMy thoughtless hand\r\nHas brushed away.\r\n\r\nAm not I\r\nA fly like thee?\r\nOr art not thou\r\nA man like me?\r\n\r\nFor I dance,\r\nAnd drink, and sing,\r\nTill some blind hand\r\nShall brush my wing.\r\n\r\nIf thought is life\r\nAnd strength and breath,\r\nAnd the want\r\nOf thought is death;\r\n\r\nThen am I\r\nA happy fly.\r\nIf I live,\r\nOr if I die.\r\n

The Angel<\/h1>\r\nI dreamt a dream! What can it mean?\r\nAnd that I was a maiden Queen\r\nGuarded by an Angel mild:\r\nWitless woe was ne\u2019er beguiled!\r\n\r\nAnd I wept both night and day,\r\nAnd he wiped my tears away;\r\nAnd I wept both day and night,\r\nAnd hid from him my heart\u2019s delight.\r\n\r\nSo he took his wings, and fled;\r\nThen the morn blushed rosy red.\r\nI dried my tears, and armed my fears\r\nWith ten thousand shields and spears.\r\n\r\nSoon my Angel came again;\r\nI was armed, he came in vain;\r\nFor the time of youth was fled,\r\nAnd grey hairs were on my head.\r\n

The Tiger<\/h1>\r\nTiger, tiger, burning bright\r\nIn the forests of the night,\r\nWhat immortal hand or eye\r\nCould frame thy fearful symmetry?\r\n\r\nIn what distant deeps or skies\r\nBurnt the fire of thine eyes?\r\nOn what wings dare he aspire?\r\nWhat the hand dare seize the fire?\r\n\r\nAnd what shoulder and what art\r\nCould twist the sinews of thy heart?\r\nAnd, when thy heart began to beat,\r\nWhat dread hand and what dread feet?\r\n\r\nWhat the hammer? what the chain?\r\nIn what furnace was thy brain?\r\nWhat the anvil? what dread grasp\r\nDare its deadly terrors clasp?\r\n\r\nWhen the stars threw down their spears,\r\nAnd watered heaven with their tears,\r\nDid He smile His work to see?\r\nDid He who made the lamb make thee?\r\n\r\nTiger, tiger, burning bright\r\nIn the forests of the night,\r\nWhat immortal hand or eye\r\nDare frame thy fearful symmetry?\r\n

My Pretty Rose Tree<\/h1>\r\nA flower was offered to me,\r\nSuch a flower as May never bore;\r\nBut I said, \u2018I\u2019ve a pretty rose tree,\u2019\r\nAnd I passed the sweet flower o\u2019er.\r\n\r\nThen I went to my pretty rose tree,\r\nTo tend her by day and by night;\r\nBut my rose turned away with jealousy,\r\nAnd her thorns were my only delight.\r\n

Ah, Sunflower<\/h1>\r\nAh, sunflower, weary of time,\r\nWho countest the steps of the sun;\r\nSeeking after that sweet golden clime\r\nWhere the traveller\u2019s journey is done;\r\n\r\nWhere the Youth pined away with desire,\r\nAnd the pale virgin shrouded in snow,\r\nArise from their graves, and aspire\r\nWhere my Sunflower wishes to go!\r\n

The Lily<\/h1>\r\nThe modest Rose puts forth a thorn,\r\nThe humble sheep a threat\u2019ning horn:\r\nWhile the Lily white shall in love delight,\r\nNor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.\r\n

The Garden of Love<\/h1>\r\nI went to the Garden of Love,\r\nAnd saw what I never had seen;\r\nA Chapel was built in the midst,\r\nWhere I used to play on the green.\r\n\r\nAnd the gates of this Chapel were shut,\r\nAnd \u2018Thou shalt not\u2019 writ over the door;\r\nSo I turned to the Garden of Love\r\nThat so many sweet flowers bore.\r\n\r\nAnd I saw it was filled with graves,\r\nAnd tombstones where flowers should be;\r\nAnd priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,\r\nAnd binding with briars my joys and desires.\r\n

The Little Vagabond<\/h1>\r\nDear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold;\r\nBut the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm.\r\nBesides, I can tell where I am used well;\r\nSuch usage in heaven will never do well.\r\n\r\nBut, if at the Church they would give us some ale,\r\nAnd a pleasant fire our souls to regale,\r\nWe\u2019d sing and we\u2019d pray all the livelong day,\r\nNor ever once wish from the Church to stray.\r\n\r\nThen the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing,\r\nAnd we\u2019d be as happy as birds in the spring;\r\nAnd modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,\r\nWould not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.\r\n\r\nAnd God, like a father, rejoicing to see\r\nHis children as pleasant and happy as He,\r\nWould have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,\r\nBut kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.\r\n

London<\/h1>\r\nI wander through each chartered street,\r\nNear where the chartered Thames does flow,\r\nA mark in every face I meet,\r\nMarks of weakness, marks of woe.\r\n\r\nIn every cry of every man,\r\nIn every infant\u2019s cry of fear,\r\nIn every voice, in every ban,\r\nThe mind-forged manacles I hear:\r\n\r\nHow the chimney-sweeper\u2019s cry\r\nEvery blackening church appals,\r\nAnd the hapless soldier\u2019s sigh\r\nRuns in blood down palace-walls.\r\n\r\nBut most, through midnight streets I hear\r\nHow the youthful harlot\u2019s curse\r\nBlasts the new-born infant\u2019s tear,\r\nAnd blights with plagues the marriage hearse.\r\n

The Human Abstract<\/h1>\r\nPity would be no more\r\nIf we did not make somebody poor,\r\nAnd Mercy no more could be\r\nIf all were as happy as we.\r\n\r\nAnd mutual fear brings Peace,\r\nTill the selfish loves increase;\r\nThen Cruelty knits a snare,\r\nAnd spreads his baits with care.\r\n\r\nHe sits down with holy fears,\r\nAnd waters the ground with tears;\r\nThen Humility takes its root\r\nUnderneath his foot.\r\n\r\nSoon spreads the dismal shade\r\nOf Mystery over his head,\r\nAnd the caterpillar and fly\r\nFeed on the Mystery.\r\n\r\nAnd it bears the fruit of Deceit,\r\nRuddy and sweet to eat,\r\nAnd the raven his nest has made\r\nIn its thickest shade.\r\n\r\nThe gods of the earth and sea\r\nSought through nature to find this tree,\r\nBut their search was all in vain:\r\nThere grows one in the human Brain.\r\n

Infant Sorrow<\/h1>\r\nMy mother groaned, my father wept:\r\nInto the dangerous world I leapt,\r\nHelpless, naked, piping loud,\r\nLike a fiend hid in a cloud.\r\n\r\nStruggling in my father\u2019s hands,\r\nStriving against my swaddling bands,\r\nBound and weary, I thought best\r\nTo sulk upon my mother\u2019s breast.\r\n

A Poison Tree<\/h1>\r\nI was angry with my friend:\r\nI told my wrath, my wrath did end.\r\nI was angry with my foe:\r\nI told it not, my wrath did grow.\r\n\r\nAnd I watered it in fears\r\nNight and morning with my tears,\r\nAnd I sunn\u00e8d it with smiles\r\nAnd with soft deceitful wiles.\r\n\r\nAnd it grew both day and night,\r\nTill it bore an apple bright,\r\nAnd my foe beheld it shine,\r\nAnd he knew that it was mine,\u2014\r\n\r\nAnd into my garden stole\r\nWhen the night had veiled the pole;\r\nIn the morning, glad, I see\r\nMy foe outstretched beneath the tree.\r\n

A Little Boy Lost<\/h1>\r\n\u2018Nought loves another as itself,\r\nNor venerates another so,\r\nNor is it possible to thought\r\nA greater than itself to know.\r\n\r\n\u2018And, father, how can I love you\r\nOr any of my brothers more?\r\nI love you like the little bird\r\nThat picks up crumbs around the door.\u2019\r\n\r\nThe Priest sat by and heard the child;\r\nIn trembling zeal he seized his hair,\r\nHe led him by his little coat,\r\nAnd all admired his priestly care.\r\n\r\nAnd standing on the altar high,\r\n\u2018Lo, what a fiend is here!\u2019 said he:\r\n\u2018One who sets reason up for judge\r\nOf our most holy mystery.\u2019\r\n\r\nThe weeping child could not be heard,\r\nThe weeping parents wept in vain:\r\nThey stripped him to his little shirt,\r\nAnd bound him in an iron chain,\r\n\r\nAnd burned him in a holy place\r\nWhere many had been burned before;\r\nThe weeping parents wept in vain.\r\nAre such things done on Albion\u2019s shore?\r\n

A Little Girl Lost<\/h1>\r\nChildren of the future age,\r\nReading this indignant page,\r\nKnow that in a former time\r\nLove, sweet love, was thought a crime.\r\n\r\nIn the age of gold,\r\nFree from winter\u2019s cold,\r\nYouth and maiden bright,\r\nTo the holy light,\r\nNaked in the sunny beams delight.\r\n\r\nOnce a youthful pair,\r\nFilled with softest care,\r\nMet in garden bright\r\nWhere the holy light\r\nHad just removed the curtains of the night.\r\n\r\nThere, in rising day,\r\nOn the grass they play;\r\nParents were afar,\r\nStrangers came not near,\r\nAnd the maiden soon forgot her fear.\r\n\r\nTired with kisses sweet,\r\nThey agree to meet\r\nWhen the silent sleep\r\nWaves o\u2019er heaven\u2019s deep,\r\nAnd the weary tired wanderers weep.\r\n\r\nTo her father white\r\nCame the maiden bright;\r\nBut his loving look,\r\nLike the holy book,\r\nAll her tender limbs with terror shook.\r\n\r\nOna, pale and weak,\r\nTo thy father speak!\r\nO the trembling fear!\r\nO the dismal care\r\nThat shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair!\u2019\r\n

A Divine Image<\/h1>\r\nCruelty has a human heart,\r\nAnd Jealousy a human face;\r\nTerror the human form divine,\r\nAnd Secrecy the human dress.\r\n\r\nThe human dress is forg\u00e8d iron,\r\nThe human form a fiery forge,\r\nThe human face a furnace sealed,\r\nThe human heart its hungry gorge.\r\n

A Cradle Song<\/h1>\r\nSleep, sleep, beauty bright,\r\nDreaming in the joys of night;\r\nSleep, sleep; in thy sleep\r\nLittle sorrows sit and weep.\r\n\r\nSweet babe, in thy face\r\nSoft desires I can trace,\r\nSecret joys and secret smiles,\r\nLittle pretty infant wiles.\r\n\r\nAs thy softest limbs I feel,\r\nSmiles as of the morning steal\r\nO\u2019er thy cheek, and o\u2019er thy breast\r\nWhere thy little heart doth rest.\r\n\r\nO the cunning wiles that creep\r\nIn thy little heart asleep!\r\nWhen thy little heart doth wake,\r\nThen the dreadful light shall break.\r\n

The Schoolboy<\/h1>\r\nI love to rise in a summer morn,\r\nWhen the birds sing on every tree;\r\nThe distant huntsman winds his horn,\r\nAnd the skylark sings with me:\r\nO what sweet company!\r\n\r\nBut to go to school in a summer morn,\u2014\r\nO it drives all joy away!\r\nUnder a cruel eye outworn,\r\nThe little ones spend the day\r\nIn sighing and dismay.\r\n\r\nAh then at times I drooping sit,\r\nAnd spend many an anxious hour;\r\nNor in my book can I take delight,\r\nNor sit in learning\u2019s bower,\r\nWorn through with the dreary shower.\r\n\r\nHow can the bird that is born for joy\r\nSit in a cage and sing?\r\nHow can a child, when fears annoy,\r\nBut droop his tender wing,\r\nAnd forget his youthful spring!\r\n\r\nO father and mother if buds are nipped,\r\nAnd blossoms blown away;\r\nAnd if the tender plants are stripped\r\nOf their joy in the springing day,\r\nBy sorrow and care\u2019s dismay,\u2014\r\n\r\nHow shall the summer arise in joy,\r\nOr the summer fruits appear?\r\nOr how shall we gather what griefs destroy,\r\nOr bless the mellowing year,\r\nWhen the blasts of winter appear?\r\n

To Tirzah<\/h1>\r\nWhate\u2019er is born of mortal birth\r\nMust be consum\u00e8d with the earth,\r\nTo rise from generation free:\r\nThen what have I to do with thee?\r\n\r\nThe sexes sprung from shame and pride,\r\nBlowed in the morn, in evening died;\r\nBut mercy changed death into sleep;\r\nThe sexes rose to work and weep.\r\n\r\nThou, mother of my mortal part,\r\nWith cruelty didst mould my heart,\r\nAnd with false self-deceiving tears\r\nDidst blind my nostrils, eyes, and ears,\r\n\r\nDidst close my tongue in senseless clay,\r\nAnd me to mortal life betray.\r\nThe death of Jesus set me free:\r\nThen what have I to do with thee?\r\n

The Voice of the Ancient Bard<\/h1>\r\nYouth of delight! come hither\r\nAnd see the opening morn,\r\nImage of Truth new-born.\r\nDoubt is fled, and clouds of reason,\r\nDark disputes and artful teazing.\r\nFolly is an endless maze;\r\nTangled roots perplex her ways;\r\nHow many have fallen there!\r\nThey stumble all night over bones of the dead;\r\nAnd feel\u2014they know not what but care;\r\nAnd wish to lead others, when they should be led.\r\n\r\n
\r\n\r\n

Source<\/h2>\r\n\"Songs of Experience\" by William Blake is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Wikisource<\/a>.","rendered":"

Introduction<\/h1>\n

Hear the voice of the Bard,
\nWho present, past, and future, sees;
\nWhose ears have heard
\nThe Holy Word
\nThat walked among the ancient trees;<\/p>\n

Calling the laps\u00e9d soul,
\nAnd weeping in the evening dew;
\nThat might control
\nThe starry pole,
\nAnd fallen, fallen light renew!<\/p>\n

\u2018O Earth, O Earth, return!
\nArise from out the dewy grass!
\nNight is worn,
\nAnd the morn
\nRises from the slumbrous mass.<\/p>\n

\u2018Turn away no more;
\nWhy wilt thou turn away?
\nThe starry floor,
\nThe watery shore,
\nIs given thee till the break of day.\u2019<\/p>\n

Earth’s Answer<\/h1>\n

Earth raised up her head
\nFrom the darkness dread and drear,
\nHer light fled,
\nStony, dread,
\nAnd her locks covered with grey despair.<\/p>\n

\u2018Prisoned on watery shore,
\nStarry jealousy does keep my den
\nCold and hoar;
\nWeeping o\u2019er,
\nI hear the father of the ancient men.<\/p>\n

\u2018Selfish father of men!
\nCruel, jealous, selfish fear!
\nCan delight,
\nChained in night,
\nThe virgins of youth and morning bear.<\/p>\n

\u2018Does spring hide its joy,
\nWhen buds and blossoms grow?
\nDoes the sower
\nSow by night,
\nOr the ploughman in darkness plough?<\/p>\n

\u2018Break this heavy chain,
\nThat does freeze my bones around!
\nSelfish, vain,
\nEternal bane,
\nThat free love with bondage bound.\u2019<\/p>\n

The Clod and the Pebble<\/h1>\n

\u2018Love seeketh not itself to please,
\nNor for itself hath any care,
\nBut for another gives its ease,
\nAnd builds a heaven in hell\u2019s despair.\u2019<\/p>\n

So sung a little clod of clay,
\nTrodden with the cattle\u2019s feet,
\nBut a pebble of the brook
\nWarbled out these metres meet:<\/p>\n

\u2018Love seeketh only Self to please,
\nTo bind another to its delight,
\nJoys in another\u2019s loss of ease,
\nAnd builds a hell in heaven\u2019s despite.\u2019<\/p>\n

Holy Thursday<\/h1>\n

Is this a holy thing to see
\nIn a rich and fruitful land,\u2014
\nBabes reduced to misery,
\nFed with cold and usurous hand?<\/p>\n

Is that trembling cry a song?
\nCan it be a song of joy?
\nAnd so many children poor?
\nIt is a land of poverty!<\/p>\n

And their sun does never shine,
\nAnd their fields are bleak and bare,
\nAnd their ways are filled with thorns,
\nIt is eternal winter there.<\/p>\n

For where\u2019er the sun does shine,
\nAnd where\u2019er the rain does fall,
\nBabe can never hunger there,
\nNor poverty the mind appal.<\/p>\n

The Little Girl Lost<\/h1>\n

In futurity
\nI prophesy
\nThat the earth from sleep
\n(Grave the sentence deep)<\/p>\n

Shall arise, and seek
\nFor her Maker meek;
\nAnd the desert wild
\nBecome a garden mild.<\/p>\n

In the southern clime,
\nWhere the summer\u2019s prime
\nNever fades away,
\nLovely Lyca lay.<\/p>\n

Seven summers old
\nLovely Lyca told.
\nShe had wandered long,
\nHearing wild birds\u2019 song.<\/p>\n

\u2018Sweet sleep, come to me,
\nUnderneath this tree;
\nDo father, mother, weep?
\nWhere can Lyca sleep?<\/p>\n

\u2018Lost in desert wild
\nIs your little child.
\nHow can Lyca sleep
\nIf her mother weep?<\/p>\n

\u2018If her heart does ache,
\nThen let Lyca wake;
\nIf my mother sleep,
\nLyca shall not weep.<\/p>\n

\u2018Frowning, frowning night,
\nO\u2019er this desert bright
\nLet thy moon arise,
\nWhile I close my eyes.\u2019<\/p>\n

Sleeping Lyca lay,
\nWhile the beasts of prey,
\nCome from caverns deep,
\nViewed the maid asleep.<\/p>\n

The kingly lion stood,
\nAnd the virgin viewed:
\nThen he gambolled round
\nO\u2019er the hallowed ground.<\/p>\n

Leopards, tigers, play
\nRound her as she lay;
\nWhile the lion old
\nBowed his mane of gold,<\/p>\n

And her bosom lick,
\nAnd upon her neck,
\nFrom his eyes of flame,
\nRuby tears there came;<\/p>\n

While the lioness
\nLoosed her slender dress,
\nAnd naked they conveyed
\nTo caves the sleeping maid.<\/p>\n

The Little Girl Found<\/h1>\n

All the night in woe
\nLyca\u2019s parents go
\nOver valleys deep,
\nWhile the deserts weep.<\/p>\n

Tired and woe-begone,
\nHoarse with making moan,
\nArm in arm, seven days
\nThey traced the desert ways.<\/p>\n

Seven nights they sleep
\nAmong shadows deep,
\nAnd dream they see their child
\nStarved in desert wild.<\/p>\n

Pale through pathless ways
\nThe fancied image strays,
\nFamished, weeping, weak,
\nWith hollow piteous shriek.<\/p>\n

Rising from unrest,
\nThe trembling woman pressed
\nWith feet of weary woe;
\nShe could no further go.<\/p>\n

In his arms he bore
\nHer, armed with sorrow sore;
\nTill before their way
\nA couching lion lay.<\/p>\n

Turning back was vain:
\nSoon his heavy mane
\nBore them to the ground,
\nThen he stalked around,<\/p>\n

Smelling to his prey;
\nBut their fears allay
\nWhen he licks their hands,
\nAnd silent by them stands.<\/p>\n

They look upon his eyes,
\nFilled with deep surprise;
\nAnd wondering behold
\nA spirit armed in gold.<\/p>\n

On his head a crown,
\nOn his shoulders down
\nFlowed his golden hair.
\nGone was all their care.<\/p>\n

\u2018Follow me,\u2019 he said;
\n\u2018Weep not for the maid;
\nIn my palace deep,
\nLyca lies asleep.\u2019<\/p>\n

Then they follow\u00e8d
\nWhere the vision led,
\nAnd saw their sleeping child
\nAmong tigers wild.<\/p>\n

To this day they dwell
\nIn a lonely dell,
\nNor fear the wolvish howl
\nNor the lion\u2019s growl.<\/p>\n

The Chimney-Sweeper<\/h1>\n

A little black thing among the snow,
\nCrying! \u2018weep! weep!\u2019 in notes of woe!
\n\u2018Where are thy father and mother? Say!\u2019\u2014
\n\u2018They are both gone up to the church to pray.<\/p>\n

\u2018Because I was happy upon the heath,
\nAnd smiled among the winter\u2019s snow,
\nThey clothed me in the clothes of death,
\nAnd taught me to sing the notes of woe.<\/p>\n

\u2018And because I am happy and dance and sing,
\nThey think they have done me no injury,
\nAnd are gone to praise God and His priest and king,
\nWho made up a heaven of our misery.\u2019<\/p>\n

Nurse’s Song<\/h1>\n

When the voices of children are heard on the green,
\nAnd whisperings are in the dale,
\nThe days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,
\nMy face turns green and pale.<\/p>\n

Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,
\nAnd the dews of night arise;
\nYour spring and your day are wasted in play,
\nAnd your winter and night in disguise.<\/p>\n

The Sick Rose<\/h1>\n

O rose, thou art sick!
\nThe invisible worm,
\nThat flies in the night,
\nIn the howling storm,<\/p>\n

Has found out thy bed
\nOf crimson joy,
\nAnd his dark secret love
\nDoes thy life destroy.<\/p>\n

The Fly<\/h1>\n

Little Fly,
\nThy summer\u2019s play
\nMy thoughtless hand
\nHas brushed away.<\/p>\n

Am not I
\nA fly like thee?
\nOr art not thou
\nA man like me?<\/p>\n

For I dance,
\nAnd drink, and sing,
\nTill some blind hand
\nShall brush my wing.<\/p>\n

If thought is life
\nAnd strength and breath,
\nAnd the want
\nOf thought is death;<\/p>\n

Then am I
\nA happy fly.
\nIf I live,
\nOr if I die.<\/p>\n

The Angel<\/h1>\n

I dreamt a dream! What can it mean?
\nAnd that I was a maiden Queen
\nGuarded by an Angel mild:
\nWitless woe was ne\u2019er beguiled!<\/p>\n

And I wept both night and day,
\nAnd he wiped my tears away;
\nAnd I wept both day and night,
\nAnd hid from him my heart\u2019s delight.<\/p>\n

So he took his wings, and fled;
\nThen the morn blushed rosy red.
\nI dried my tears, and armed my fears
\nWith ten thousand shields and spears.<\/p>\n

Soon my Angel came again;
\nI was armed, he came in vain;
\nFor the time of youth was fled,
\nAnd grey hairs were on my head.<\/p>\n

The Tiger<\/h1>\n

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
\nIn the forests of the night,
\nWhat immortal hand or eye
\nCould frame thy fearful symmetry?<\/p>\n

In what distant deeps or skies
\nBurnt the fire of thine eyes?
\nOn what wings dare he aspire?
\nWhat the hand dare seize the fire?<\/p>\n

And what shoulder and what art
\nCould twist the sinews of thy heart?
\nAnd, when thy heart began to beat,
\nWhat dread hand and what dread feet?<\/p>\n

What the hammer? what the chain?
\nIn what furnace was thy brain?
\nWhat the anvil? what dread grasp
\nDare its deadly terrors clasp?<\/p>\n

When the stars threw down their spears,
\nAnd watered heaven with their tears,
\nDid He smile His work to see?
\nDid He who made the lamb make thee?<\/p>\n

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
\nIn the forests of the night,
\nWhat immortal hand or eye
\nDare frame thy fearful symmetry?<\/p>\n

My Pretty Rose Tree<\/h1>\n

A flower was offered to me,
\nSuch a flower as May never bore;
\nBut I said, \u2018I\u2019ve a pretty rose tree,\u2019
\nAnd I passed the sweet flower o\u2019er.<\/p>\n

Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
\nTo tend her by day and by night;
\nBut my rose turned away with jealousy,
\nAnd her thorns were my only delight.<\/p>\n

Ah, Sunflower<\/h1>\n

Ah, sunflower, weary of time,
\nWho countest the steps of the sun;
\nSeeking after that sweet golden clime
\nWhere the traveller\u2019s journey is done;<\/p>\n

Where the Youth pined away with desire,
\nAnd the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
\nArise from their graves, and aspire
\nWhere my Sunflower wishes to go!<\/p>\n

The Lily<\/h1>\n

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
\nThe humble sheep a threat\u2019ning horn:
\nWhile the Lily white shall in love delight,
\nNor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.<\/p>\n

The Garden of Love<\/h1>\n

I went to the Garden of Love,
\nAnd saw what I never had seen;
\nA Chapel was built in the midst,
\nWhere I used to play on the green.<\/p>\n

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
\nAnd \u2018Thou shalt not\u2019 writ over the door;
\nSo I turned to the Garden of Love
\nThat so many sweet flowers bore.<\/p>\n

And I saw it was filled with graves,
\nAnd tombstones where flowers should be;
\nAnd priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
\nAnd binding with briars my joys and desires.<\/p>\n

The Little Vagabond<\/h1>\n

Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold;
\nBut the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm.
\nBesides, I can tell where I am used well;
\nSuch usage in heaven will never do well.<\/p>\n

But, if at the Church they would give us some ale,
\nAnd a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
\nWe\u2019d sing and we\u2019d pray all the livelong day,
\nNor ever once wish from the Church to stray.<\/p>\n

Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
\nAnd we\u2019d be as happy as birds in the spring;
\nAnd modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
\nWould not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.<\/p>\n

And God, like a father, rejoicing to see
\nHis children as pleasant and happy as He,
\nWould have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
\nBut kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.<\/p>\n

London<\/h1>\n

I wander through each chartered street,
\nNear where the chartered Thames does flow,
\nA mark in every face I meet,
\nMarks of weakness, marks of woe.<\/p>\n

In every cry of every man,
\nIn every infant\u2019s cry of fear,
\nIn every voice, in every ban,
\nThe mind-forged manacles I hear:<\/p>\n

How the chimney-sweeper\u2019s cry
\nEvery blackening church appals,
\nAnd the hapless soldier\u2019s sigh
\nRuns in blood down palace-walls.<\/p>\n

But most, through midnight streets I hear
\nHow the youthful harlot\u2019s curse
\nBlasts the new-born infant\u2019s tear,
\nAnd blights with plagues the marriage hearse.<\/p>\n

The Human Abstract<\/h1>\n

Pity would be no more
\nIf we did not make somebody poor,
\nAnd Mercy no more could be
\nIf all were as happy as we.<\/p>\n

And mutual fear brings Peace,
\nTill the selfish loves increase;
\nThen Cruelty knits a snare,
\nAnd spreads his baits with care.<\/p>\n

He sits down with holy fears,
\nAnd waters the ground with tears;
\nThen Humility takes its root
\nUnderneath his foot.<\/p>\n

Soon spreads the dismal shade
\nOf Mystery over his head,
\nAnd the caterpillar and fly
\nFeed on the Mystery.<\/p>\n

And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
\nRuddy and sweet to eat,
\nAnd the raven his nest has made
\nIn its thickest shade.<\/p>\n

The gods of the earth and sea
\nSought through nature to find this tree,
\nBut their search was all in vain:
\nThere grows one in the human Brain.<\/p>\n

Infant Sorrow<\/h1>\n

My mother groaned, my father wept:
\nInto the dangerous world I leapt,
\nHelpless, naked, piping loud,
\nLike a fiend hid in a cloud.<\/p>\n

Struggling in my father\u2019s hands,
\nStriving against my swaddling bands,
\nBound and weary, I thought best
\nTo sulk upon my mother\u2019s breast.<\/p>\n

A Poison Tree<\/h1>\n

I was angry with my friend:
\nI told my wrath, my wrath did end.
\nI was angry with my foe:
\nI told it not, my wrath did grow.<\/p>\n

And I watered it in fears
\nNight and morning with my tears,
\nAnd I sunn\u00e8d it with smiles
\nAnd with soft deceitful wiles.<\/p>\n

And it grew both day and night,
\nTill it bore an apple bright,
\nAnd my foe beheld it shine,
\nAnd he knew that it was mine,\u2014<\/p>\n

And into my garden stole
\nWhen the night had veiled the pole;
\nIn the morning, glad, I see
\nMy foe outstretched beneath the tree.<\/p>\n

A Little Boy Lost<\/h1>\n

\u2018Nought loves another as itself,
\nNor venerates another so,
\nNor is it possible to thought
\nA greater than itself to know.<\/p>\n

\u2018And, father, how can I love you
\nOr any of my brothers more?
\nI love you like the little bird
\nThat picks up crumbs around the door.\u2019<\/p>\n

The Priest sat by and heard the child;
\nIn trembling zeal he seized his hair,
\nHe led him by his little coat,
\nAnd all admired his priestly care.<\/p>\n

And standing on the altar high,
\n\u2018Lo, what a fiend is here!\u2019 said he:
\n\u2018One who sets reason up for judge
\nOf our most holy mystery.\u2019<\/p>\n

The weeping child could not be heard,
\nThe weeping parents wept in vain:
\nThey stripped him to his little shirt,
\nAnd bound him in an iron chain,<\/p>\n

And burned him in a holy place
\nWhere many had been burned before;
\nThe weeping parents wept in vain.
\nAre such things done on Albion\u2019s shore?<\/p>\n

A Little Girl Lost<\/h1>\n

Children of the future age,
\nReading this indignant page,
\nKnow that in a former time
\nLove, sweet love, was thought a crime.<\/p>\n

In the age of gold,
\nFree from winter\u2019s cold,
\nYouth and maiden bright,
\nTo the holy light,
\nNaked in the sunny beams delight.<\/p>\n

Once a youthful pair,
\nFilled with softest care,
\nMet in garden bright
\nWhere the holy light
\nHad just removed the curtains of the night.<\/p>\n

There, in rising day,
\nOn the grass they play;
\nParents were afar,
\nStrangers came not near,
\nAnd the maiden soon forgot her fear.<\/p>\n

Tired with kisses sweet,
\nThey agree to meet
\nWhen the silent sleep
\nWaves o\u2019er heaven\u2019s deep,
\nAnd the weary tired wanderers weep.<\/p>\n

To her father white
\nCame the maiden bright;
\nBut his loving look,
\nLike the holy book,
\nAll her tender limbs with terror shook.<\/p>\n

Ona, pale and weak,
\nTo thy father speak!
\nO the trembling fear!
\nO the dismal care
\nThat shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair!\u2019<\/p>\n

A Divine Image<\/h1>\n

Cruelty has a human heart,
\nAnd Jealousy a human face;
\nTerror the human form divine,
\nAnd Secrecy the human dress.<\/p>\n

The human dress is forg\u00e8d iron,
\nThe human form a fiery forge,
\nThe human face a furnace sealed,
\nThe human heart its hungry gorge.<\/p>\n

A Cradle Song<\/h1>\n

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
\nDreaming in the joys of night;
\nSleep, sleep; in thy sleep
\nLittle sorrows sit and weep.<\/p>\n

Sweet babe, in thy face
\nSoft desires I can trace,
\nSecret joys and secret smiles,
\nLittle pretty infant wiles.<\/p>\n

As thy softest limbs I feel,
\nSmiles as of the morning steal
\nO\u2019er thy cheek, and o\u2019er thy breast
\nWhere thy little heart doth rest.<\/p>\n

O the cunning wiles that creep
\nIn thy little heart asleep!
\nWhen thy little heart doth wake,
\nThen the dreadful light shall break.<\/p>\n

The Schoolboy<\/h1>\n

I love to rise in a summer morn,
\nWhen the birds sing on every tree;
\nThe distant huntsman winds his horn,
\nAnd the skylark sings with me:
\nO what sweet company!<\/p>\n

But to go to school in a summer morn,\u2014
\nO it drives all joy away!
\nUnder a cruel eye outworn,
\nThe little ones spend the day
\nIn sighing and dismay.<\/p>\n

Ah then at times I drooping sit,
\nAnd spend many an anxious hour;
\nNor in my book can I take delight,
\nNor sit in learning\u2019s bower,
\nWorn through with the dreary shower.<\/p>\n

How can the bird that is born for joy
\nSit in a cage and sing?
\nHow can a child, when fears annoy,
\nBut droop his tender wing,
\nAnd forget his youthful spring!<\/p>\n

O father and mother if buds are nipped,
\nAnd blossoms blown away;
\nAnd if the tender plants are stripped
\nOf their joy in the springing day,
\nBy sorrow and care\u2019s dismay,\u2014<\/p>\n

How shall the summer arise in joy,
\nOr the summer fruits appear?
\nOr how shall we gather what griefs destroy,
\nOr bless the mellowing year,
\nWhen the blasts of winter appear?<\/p>\n

To Tirzah<\/h1>\n

Whate\u2019er is born of mortal birth
\nMust be consum\u00e8d with the earth,
\nTo rise from generation free:
\nThen what have I to do with thee?<\/p>\n

The sexes sprung from shame and pride,
\nBlowed in the morn, in evening died;
\nBut mercy changed death into sleep;
\nThe sexes rose to work and weep.<\/p>\n

Thou, mother of my mortal part,
\nWith cruelty didst mould my heart,
\nAnd with false self-deceiving tears
\nDidst blind my nostrils, eyes, and ears,<\/p>\n

Didst close my tongue in senseless clay,
\nAnd me to mortal life betray.
\nThe death of Jesus set me free:
\nThen what have I to do with thee?<\/p>\n

The Voice of the Ancient Bard<\/h1>\n

Youth of delight! come hither
\nAnd see the opening morn,
\nImage of Truth new-born.
\nDoubt is fled, and clouds of reason,
\nDark disputes and artful teazing.
\nFolly is an endless maze;
\nTangled roots perplex her ways;
\nHow many have fallen there!
\nThey stumble all night over bones of the dead;
\nAnd feel\u2014they know not what but care;
\nAnd wish to lead others, when they should be led.<\/p>\n

\n

Source<\/h2>\n

“Songs of Experience” by William Blake is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Wikisource<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":299,"menu_order":2,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":[],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[],"contributor":[],"license":[],"class_list":["post-156","chapter","type-chapter","status-publish","hentry"],"part":26,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/poetryandpoetics\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/156","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/poetryandpoetics\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/poetryandpoetics\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/poetryandpoetics\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/299"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/poetryandpoetics\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/156\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":260,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/poetryandpoetics\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/156\/revisions\/260"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/poetryandpoetics\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/26"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/poetryandpoetics\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/156\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/poetryandpoetics\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=156"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/poetryandpoetics\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=156"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/poetryandpoetics\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=156"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/poetryandpoetics\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=156"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}