Poem – Several Questions Answered

What is it men in women do require?
The lineaments of Gratified Desire.
What is it women do in men require?
The lineaments of Gratified Desire.

The look of love alarms
Because ’tis fill’d with fire;
But the look of soft deceit
Shall Win the lover’s hire.

Soft Deceit & Idleness,
These are Beauty’s sweetest dress.

He who binds to himself a joy
Dot the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in Eternity’s sunrise

Poem – Samson

Samson, the strongest of the children of men, I sing; how he was foiled by woman’s arts, by a false wife brought to the gates of death! O Truth! that shinest with propitious beams, turning our earthly night to heavenly day, from presence of the Almighty Father, thou visitest our darkling world with blessed feet, bringing good news of Sin and Death destroyed! O whiterobed Angel, guide my timorous hand to write as on a lofty rock with iron pen the words of truth, that all who pass may read. — Now Night, noontide of damned spirits, over the silent earth spreads her pavilion, while in dark council sat Philista’s lords; and, where strength failed, black thoughts in ambush lay. Their helmed youth and aged warriors in dust together lie, and Desolation spreads his wings over the land of Palestine: from side to side the land groans, her prowess lost, and seeks to hide her bruised head under the mists of night, breeding dark plots. For Dalila’s fair arts have long been tried in vain; in vain she wept in many a treacherous tear. Go on, fair traitress; do thy guileful work; ere once again the changing moon her circuit hath performed, thou shalt overcome, and conquer him by force unconquerable, and wrest his secret from him. Call thine alluring arts and honest-seeming brow, the holy kiss of love, and the transparent tear; put on fair linen that with the lily vies, purple and silver; neglect thy hair, to seem more lovely in thy loose attire; put on thy country's pride, deceit, and eyes of love decked in mild sorrow; and sell thy lord for gold.' For now, upon her sumptuous couch reclined in gorgeous pride, she still entreats, and still she grasps his vigorous knees with her fair arms.Thou lov’st me not! thou’rt war, thou art not love! O foolish Dalila! O weak woman! it is death clothed in flesh thou lovest, and thou hast been encircled in his arms! Alas, my lord, what am I calling thee? Thou art my God! To thee I pour my tears for sacrifice morning and evening. My days are covered with sorrow, shut up, darkened! By night I am deceived! Who says that thou wast born of mortal kind? Destruction was thy father, a lioness suckled thee, thy young hands tore human limbs, and gorged human flesh. Come hither, Death; art thou not Samson’s servant? ‘Tis Dalila that calls, thy master’s wife; no, stay, and let thy master do the deed: one blow of that strong arm would ease my pain; then should I lay at quiet and have rest. Pity forsook thee at thy birth! O Dagon furious, and all ye gods of Palestine, withdraw your hand! I am but a weak woman. Alas, I am wedded to your enemy! I will go mad, and tear my crisped hair; 1000 I’ll run about, and pierce the ears o’ th’ gods! O Samson, hold me not; thou lovest me not! Look not upon me with those deathful eyes! Thou wouldst my death, and death approaches fast.’ Thus, in false tears, she bath’d his feet, and thus she day by day oppressed his soul: he seemed a mountain; his brow among the clouds; she seemed a silver stream, his feet embracing. Dark thoughts rolled to and fro in his mind, like thunder clouds troubling the sky; his visage was troubled; his soul was distressed. Though I should tell her all my heart, what can I fear? Though I should tell this secret of my birth, the utmost may be warded off as well when told as now.' She saw him moved, and thus resumes her wiles.Samson, I’m thine; do with me what thou wilt: my friends are enemies; my life is death; I am a traitor to my nation, and despised; my joy is given into the hands of him who hates me, using deceit to the wife of his bosom. Thrice hast thou mocked me and grieved my soul. Didst thou not tell me with green withs to bind thy nervous arms; and, after that, when I had found thy falsehood, with new ropes to bind thee fast? I knew thou didst but mock me. Alas, when in thy sleep I bound thee with them to try thy truth, I cried, “The Philistines be upon thee, Samson!” Then did suspicion wake thee; how didst thou rend the feeble ties! Thou fearest nought, what shouldst thou fear? Thy power is more than mortal, none can hurt thee; thy bones are brass, thy sinews are iron. Ten thousand spears are like the summer grass; an army of mighty men are as flocks in the valleys; what canst thou fear? I drink my tears like water; I live upon sorrow! O worse than wolves and tigers, what canst thou give when such a trifle is denied me? But O! at last thou mockest me, to shame my over-fond inquiry. Thou toldest me to weave thee to the beam by thy strong hair; I did even that to try thy truth; but, when I cried “The Philistines be upon thee!” then didst thou leave me to bewail that Samson loved me not.’ He sat, and inward griev’d; he saw and lov’d the beauteous suppliant, nor could conceal aught that might appease her; then, leaning on her bosom, thus he spoke: `Hear, O Dalila! doubt no more of Samson’s love; for that fair breast was made the ivory palace of my inmost heart, where it shall lie at rest: for sorrow is the lot of all of woman born: for care was I brought forth, and labour is my lot: nor matchless might, nor wisdom, nor every gift enjoyed, can from the heart of man hide sorrow. Twice was my birth foretold from heaven, and twice a sacred vow enjoined me that I should drink no wine, nor eat of any unclean thing; for holy unto Israel’s God I am, a Nazarite even from my mother’s womb. Twice was it told, that it might not be broken. “Grant me a son, kind Heaven,” Manoa cried; but Heaven refused. Childless he mourned, but thought his God knew best. In solitude, though not obscure, in Israel he lived, till venerable age came on: his flocks increased, and plenty crowned his board, beloved, revered of man. But God hath other joys in store. Is burdened Israel his grief? The son of his old age shall set it free! The venerable sweetener of his life receives the promise first from Heaven. She saw the maidens play, and blessed their innocent mirth; she blessed each new-joined pair; but from her the long-wished deliverer shall spring. Pensive, alone she sat within the house, when busy day was fading, and calm evening, time for contemplation, rose from the forsaken east, and drew the curtains of heaven: pensive she sat, and thought on Israel’s grief, and silent prayed to Israel’s God; when lo! an angel from the fields of light entered the house. His form was manhood in the prime, and from his spacious brow shot terrors through the evening shade. But mild he hailed her, “Hail, highly favoured!” said he; “for lo! thou shalt conceive, and bear a son, and Israel’s strength shall be upon his shoulders, and he shall be called Israel’s Deliverer. Now, therefore, drink no wine, and eat not any unclean thing, for he shall be a Nazarite to God.” Then, as a nei 727 ghbour, when his evening tale is told, departs, his blessing leaving, so seemed he to depart: she wondered with exceeding joy, nor knew he was an angel. Manoa left his fields to sit in the house, and take his evening’s rest from labour — the sweetest time that God has allotted mortal man. He sat, and heard with joy, and praised God, who Israel still doth keep. The time rolled on, and Israel groaned oppressed. The sword was bright, while the ploughshare rusted, till hope grew feeble, and was ready to give place to doubting. Then prayed Manoa: “O Lord, thy flock is scattered on the hills! The wolf teareth them, Oppression stretches his rod over our land, our country is ploughed with swords, and reaped in blood. The echoes of slaughter reach from hill to hill. Instead of peaceful pipe the shepherd bears a sword, the ox-goad is turned into a spear. O when shall our Deliverer come? The Philistine riots on our flocks, our vintage is gathered by bands of enemies. Stretch forth thy hand, and save!” Thus prayed Manoa. The aged woman walked into the field, and lo! again the angel came, clad as a traveller fresh risen on his journey. She ran and called her husband, who came and talked with him. “O man of God,” said he, “thou comest from far! Let us detain thee while I make ready a kid, that thou mayest sit and eat, and tell us of thy name and warfare; that, when thy sayings come to pass, we may honour thee.” The Angel answered, “My name is Wonderful; inquire not after it, seeing it is a secret; but, if thou wilt, offer an offering unto the Lord.”‘

Poem – Love’s Secret

Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart;
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,
Ah! she did depart!

Soon as she was gone from me,
A traveler came by,
Silently, invisibly
He took her with a sigh.

Poem – 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 ‘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 Grey Monk – William Blake

1 ‘I die, I die!’ the Mother said, 

2 ‘My children die for lack of bread. 

3 What more has the merciless Tyrant said?’ 

4 The Monk sat down on the stony bed. 
5 The blood red ran from the Grey Monk’s side, 

6 His hands and feet were wounded wide, 

7 His body bent, his arms and knees 

8 Like to the roots of ancient trees. 
9 His eye was dry; no tear could flow: 

10 A hollow groan first spoke his woe. 

11 He trembled and shudder’d upon the bed; 

12 At length with a feeble cry he said: 
13 ‘When God commanded this hand to write 

14 In the studious hours of deep midnight, 

15 He told me the writing I wrote should prove 

16 The bane of all that on Earth I lov’d. 
17 My Brother starv’d between two walls, 

18 His Children’s cry my soul appalls; 

19 I mock’d at the rack and griding chain, 

20 My bent body mocks their torturing pain. 
21 Thy father drew his sword in the North, 

22 With his thousands strong he marched forth; 

23 Thy Brother has arm’d himself in steel 

24 To avenge the wrongs thy Children feel. 
25 But vain the Sword and vain the Bow, 

26 They never can work War’s overthrow. 

27 The Hermit’s prayer and the Widow’s tear 

28 Alone can free the World from fear. 
29 For a Tear is an intellectual thing, 

30 And a Sigh is the sword of an Angel King, 

31 And the bitter groan of the Martyr’s woe 

32 Is an arrow from the Almighty’s bow. 
33 The hand of Vengeance found the bed 

34 To which the Purple Tyrant fled; 

35 The iron hand crush’d the Tyrant’s head 

36 And became a Tyrant in his stead.’

To The Muses – William Blake

Whether on Ida’s shady brow, 

Or in the chambers of the East, 

The chambers of the sun, that now 

From ancient melody have ceas’d; 
Whether in Heav’n 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 

Wand’ring in many a coral grove, 

Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry! 
How have you left the ancient love 

That bards of old enjoy’d in you! 

The languid strings do scarcely move! 

The sound is forc’d, the notes are few!

To Winter – William Blake

O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: 

The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark 

Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, 

Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.’ 

He hears me not, but o’er the yawning deep 

Rides heavy; his storms are unchain’d, sheathèd 

In ribbèd steel; I dare not lift mine eyes, 

For he hath rear’d his sceptre o’er the world. 

Lo! now the direful monster, whose 1000 skin clings 

To his strong bones, strides o’er the groaning rocks: 

He withers all in silence, and in his hand 

Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life. 

He takes his seat upon the cliffs,–the mariner 

Cries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal’st 

With storms!–till heaven smiles, and the monster 

Is driv’n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla.

Poem – Why was Cupid A Boy – William Blake

Why was Cupid a boy, 

And why a boy was he? 

He should have been a girl, 

For aught that I can see. 

For he shoots with his bow, 

And the girl shoots with her eye, 

And they both are merry and glad, 

And laugh when we do cry. 

And to make Cupid a boy 

Was the Cupid girl’s mocking plan; 

For a boy can’t interpret the thing 

Till he is become a man. 

And then he’s so pierc’d with cares, 

And wounded with arrowy smarts, 

That the whole business of his life 

Is to pick out the heads of the darts. 

‘Twas the Greeks’ love of war 

Turn’d Love into a boy, 

And woman into a statue of stone– 

And away fled every joy.

Poems – My Pretty Rose Tree – William Blake

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.

Poems – Silent Night – William Blake

Silent, silent night, 

Quench the holy light 

Of thy torches bright; 
For possessed of Day 

Thousand spirits stray 

That sweet joys betray. 
Why should joys be sweet 

Used with deceit, 

Nor with sorrows meet? 
But an honest joy 

Does itself destroy 

For a harlot coy.

Poems – A Little Boy Lost – William Blake

Nought loves another as itself, 

Nor venerates another so, 

Nor is it possible to thought 

A greater than itself to know. 
‘And, father, how can I love you 

Or any of my brothers more? 

I love you like the little bird 

That picks up crumbs around the door.’ 
The Priest sat by and heard the child; 

In trembling zeal he seized his hair, 

He led him by his little coat, 

And all admired the priestly care. 
And standing on the altar high, 

‘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 place 

Where many had been burned before; 

The weeping parents wept in vain. 

Are such thing done on Albion’s shore?

Poems – A Divine Image – William Blake

Cruelty has a human heart, 

And Jealousy a human face; 

Terror the human form divine, 

And Secresy the human dress. 
The human dress is forged iron, 

The human form a fiery forge, 

The human face a furnace sealed, 

The human heart its hungry gorge

Poems – Hear The Voice – William Blake

HEAR the voice of the Bard, Who present, past, and future, sees; 

Whose ears have heard 

The Holy Word 

That walk’d among the ancient trees; 
Calling the lapsed soul, 

And weeping in the evening dew; 

That might control 

The starry pole, 

And fallen, fallen light renew! 
‘O Earth, O Earth, return! 

Arise from out the dewy grass! 

Night is worn, 

And the morn 

Rises from the slumbrous mass. 
‘Turn away no more; 

Why wilt thou turn away? 

The starry floor, 

The watery shore, 

Is given thee till the break of day.’

Poem – Auguries Of Innocence

William Blake
28 Nov 1757 – 12 Aug 1827 London

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.
A dove house fill’d with doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thro’ all its regions.
A dog starv’d at his Master’s Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State.
A Horse misus’d upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fibre from the Brain does tear.
A Skylark wounded in the wing,
A Cherubim does cease to sing.
The Game Cock clipp’d and arm’d for fight
Does the Rising Sun affright.
Every Wolf’s & Lion’s howl
Raises from Hell a Human Soul.
The wild deer, wand’ring here & there,
Keeps the Human Soul from Care.
The Lamb misus’d breeds public strife
And yet forgives the Butcher’s Knife.
The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that won’t believe.
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbeliever’s fright.
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be belov’d by Men.
He who the Ox to wrath has mov’d
Shall never be by Woman lov’d.
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly
Shall feel the Spider’s enmity.
He who torments the Chafer’s sprite
Weaves a Bower in endless Night.
The Catterpillar on the Leaf
Repeats to thee thy Mother’s grief.
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,
For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.
He who shall train the Horse to War
Shall never pass the Polar Bar.
The Beggar’s Dog & Widow’s Cat,
Feed them & thou wilt grow fat.
The Gnat that sings his Summer’s song
Poison gets from Slander’s tongue.
The poison of the Snake & Newt
Is the sweat of Envy’s Foot.
The poison of the Honey Bee
Is the Artist’s Jealousy.
The Prince’s Robes & Beggars’ Rags
Are Toadstools on the Miser’s Bags.
A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for Joy & Woe;
And when this we rightly know
Thro’ the World we safely go.
Joy & Woe are woven fine,
A Clothing for the Soul divine;
Under every grief & pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The Babe is more than swadling Bands;
Throughout all these Human Lands
Tools were made, & born were hands,
Every Farmer Understands.
Every Tear from Every Eye
Becomes a Babe in Eternity.
This is caught by Females bright
And return’d to its own delight.
The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow & Roar
Are Waves that Beat on Heaven’s Shore.
The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath
Writes Revenge in realms of death.
The Beggar’s Rags, fluttering in Air,
Does to Rags the Heavens tear.
The Soldier arm’d with Sword & Gun,
Palsied strikes the Summer’s Sun.
The poor Man’s Farthing is worth more
Than all the Gold on Afric’s Shore.
One Mite wrung from the Labrer’s hands
Shall buy & sell the Miser’s lands:
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole Nation sell & buy.
He who mocks the Infant’s Faith
Shall be mock’d in Age & Death.
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall ne’er get out.
He who respects the Infant’s faith
Triumph’s over Hell & Death.
The Child’s Toys & the Old Man’s Reasons
Are the Fruits of the Two seasons.
The Questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to Reply.
He who replies to words of Doubt
Doth put the Light of Knowledge out.
The Strongest Poison ever known
Came from Caesar’s Laurel Crown.
Nought can deform the Human Race
Like the Armour’s iron brace.
When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow
To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow.
A Riddle or the Cricket’s Cry
Is to Doubt a fit Reply.
The Emmet’s Inch & Eagle’s Mile
Make Lame Philosophy to smile.
He who Doubts from what he sees
Will ne’er believe, do what you Please.
If the Sun & Moon should doubt
They’d immediately Go out.
To be in a Passion you Good may do,
But no Good if a Passion is in you.
The Whore & Gambler, by the State
Licenc’d, build that Nation’s Fate.
The Harlot’s cry from Street to Street
Shall weave Old England’s winding Sheet.
The Winner’s Shout, the Loser’s Curse,
Dance before dead England’s Hearse.
Every Night & every Morn
Some to Misery are Born.
Every Morn & every Night
Some are Born to sweet Delight.
Some ar Born to sweet Delight,
Some are born to Endless Night.
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro’ the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to Perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light.
God Appears & God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in the Night,
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day.

Poem – The Book Of Urizen

William Blake
28 Nov 1757 – 12 Aug 1827 London

Chapter Vi

1. But Los saw the Female & pitied
   He embrac’d her, she wept, she refus’d
   In perverse and cruel delight
   She fled from his arms, yet he followd

2. Eternity shudder’d when they saw,
   Man begetting his likeness,
   On his own divided image.

3. A time passed over, the Eternals
   Began to erect the tent;
   When Enitharmon sick,
   Felt a Worm within her womb.

4. Yet helpless it lay like a Worm
   In the trembling womb
   To be moulded into existence

5. All day the worm lay on her bosom
   All night within her womb
   The worm lay till it grew to a serpent
   With dolorous hissings & poisons
   Round Enitharmons loins folding,

6. Coild within Enitharmons womb
   The serpent grew casting its scales,
   With sharp pangs the hissings began
   To change to a grating cry,
   Many sorrows and dismal throes,
   Many forms of fish, bird & beast,
   Brought forth an Infant form
   Where was a worm before.

7. The Eternals their tent finished
   Alarm’d with these gloomy visions
   When Enitharmon groaning
   Produc’d a man Child to the light.

8. A shriek ran thro’ Eternity:
   And a paralytic stroke;
   At the birth of the Human shadow.

9. Delving earth in his resistless way;
   Howling, the Child with fierce flames
   Issu’d from Enitharmon.

10. The Eternals, closed the tent
    They beat down the stakes the cords
    Stretch’d for a work of eternity;
    No more Los beheld Eternity.

11. In his hands he seiz’d the infant
    He bathed him in springs of sorrow
    He gave him to Enitharmon.

Poem – When Klopstock England Defied

William Blake
28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827 London

When Klopstock England defied,
Uprose William Blake in his pride;
For old Nobodaddy aloft
. . . and belch’d and cough’d;
Then swore a great oath that made Heaven quake,
And call’d aloud to English Blake.
Blake was giving his body ease,
At Lambeth beneath the poplar trees.
From his seat then started he
And turn’d him round three times three.
The moon at that sight blush’d scarlet red,
The stars threw down their cups and fled,
And all the devils that were in hell,

Answerèd with a ninefold yell.
Klopstock felt the intripled turn,
And all his bowels began to churn,
And his bowels turn’d round three times three,
And lock’d in his soul with a ninefold key; . . .
Then again old Nobodaddy swore
He ne’er had seen such a thing before,
Since Noah was shut in the ark,
Since Eve first chose her hellfire spark,
Since ’twas the fashion to go naked,
Since the old Anything was created . . .

Poem – The Book Of Urizen

William Blake
28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827 London

Chapter Viii

1. Urizen explor’d his dens
   Mountain, moor, & wilderness,
   With a globe of fire lighting his journey
   A fearful journey, annoy’d
   By cruel enormities: forms
   Of life on his forsaken mountains

2. And his world teemd vast enormities
   Frightning; faithless; fawning
   Portions of life; similitudes
   Of a foot, or a hand, or a head
   Or a heart, or an eye, they swam mischevous
   Dread terrors! delighting in blood

3. Most Urizen sicken’d to see
   His eternal creations appear
   Sons & daughters of sorrow on mountains
   Weeping! wailing! first Thiriel appear’d
   Astonish’d at his own existence
   Like a man from a cloud born, & Utha
   From the waters emerging, laments!
   Grodna rent the deep earth howling
   Amaz’d! his heavens immense cracks
   Like the ground parch’d with heat; then Fuzon
   Flam’d out! first begotten, last born.
   All his eternal sons in like manner
   His daughters from green herbs & cattle
   From monsters, & worms of the pit.

4. He in darkness clos’d, view’d all his race,
   And his soul sicken’d! he curs’d
   Both sons & daughters; for he saw
   That no flesh nor spirit could keep
   His iron laws one moment.

5. For he saw that life liv’d upon death
   The Ox in the slaughter house moans
   The Dog at the wintry door
   And he wept, & he called it Pity
   And his tears flowed down on the winds

6. Cold he wander’d on high, over their cities
   In weeping & pain & woe!
   And where-ever he wanderd in sorrows
   Upon the aged heavens
   A cold shadow follow’d behind him
   Like a spiders web, moist, cold, & dim
   Drawing out from his sorrowing soul
   The dungeon-like heaven dividing.
   Where ever the footsteps of Urizen
   Walk’d over the cities in sorrow.

7. Till a Web dark & cold, throughout all
   The tormented element stretch’d
   From the sorrows of Urizens soul
   And the Web is a Female in embrio
   None could break the Web, no wings of fire.

8. So twisted the cords, & so knotted
   The meshes: twisted like to the human brain

9. And all calld it, The Net of Religion

Poem – The Invocation

William Blake
28 Nov 1757 – 12 Aug 1827 London

Daughters of Beulah! Muses who inspire the Poet’s Song,
Record the journey of immortal Milton thro’ your realms
Of terror and mild moony lustre, in soft Sexual delusions
Of varièd beauty, to delight the wanderer, and repose
His burning thirst and freezing hunger! Come into my hand,
By your mild power descending down the nerves of my right arm
From out the portals of my Brain, where by your ministry
The Eternal Great Humanity Divine planted His Paradise,
And in it caus’d the Spectres of the Dead to take sweet form
In likeness of Himself. Tell also of the False Tongue, vegetated
Beneath your land of Shadows, of its sacrifices and
Its offerings; even till Jesus, the image of the Invisible God,
Became its prey; a curse, an offering, and an atonement
For Death Eternal, in the Heavens of Albion, and before the Gates
Of Jerusalem his Emanation, in the Heavens beneath Beulah!

Poem – The Tiger

William Blake
28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827 London

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests 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 sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & 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 water’d 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?

Poem – A Poison Tree

William Blake
28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827 London

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 see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Poem – A Dream

William Blake
28 Nov 1757 – 12 Aug 1827 London

Once 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 tangle spray,
All heart-broke, I heard her say:

‘Oh my children! do they cry,
Do they hear their father sigh?
Now they look abroad to see,
Now return and weep for me.’

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

‘I am set to light the ground,
While the beetle goes his round:
Follow now the beetle’s hum;
Little wanderer, hie thee home! ‘

Poem – Broken Love

William Blake
28 Nov 1757 – 12 Aug 1827 London

MY Spectre around me night and day
Like a wild beast guards my way;
My Emanation far within
Weeps incessantly for my sin.

‘A fathomless and boundless deep,
There we wander, there we weep;
On the hungry craving wind
My Spectre follows thee behind.

‘He scents thy footsteps in the snow
Wheresoever thou dost go,
Thro’ the wintry hail and rain.
When wilt thou return again?

’Dost thou not in pride and scorn
Fill with tempests all my morn,
And with jealousies and fears
Fill my pleasant nights with tears?

‘Seven of my sweet loves thy knife
Has bereavèd of their life.
Their marble tombs I built with tears,
And with cold and shuddering fears.

‘Seven more loves weep night and day
Round the tombs where my loves lay,
And seven more loves attend each night
Around my couch with torches bright.

‘And seven more loves in my bed
Crown with wine my mournful head,
Pitying and forgiving all
Thy transgressions great and small.

‘When wilt thou return and view
My loves, and them to life renew?
When wilt thou return and live?
When wilt thou pity as I forgive?’

‘O’er my sins thou sit and moan:
Hast thou no sins of thy own?
O’er my sins thou sit and weep,
And lull thy own sins fast asleep.

‘What transgressions I commit
Are for thy transgressions fit.
They thy harlots, thou their slave;
And my bed becomes their grave.

‘Never, never, I return:
Still for victory I burn.
Living, thee alone I’ll have;
And when dead I’ll be thy grave.

‘Thro’ the Heaven and Earth and Hell
Thou shalt never, quell:
I will fly and thou pursue:
Night and morn the flight renew.’

‘Poor, pale, pitiable form
That I follow in a storm;
Iron tears and groans of lead
Bind around my aching head.

‘Till I turn from Female love
And root up the Infernal Grove,
I shall never worthy be
To step into Eternity.

‘And, to end thy cruel mocks,
Annihilate thee on the rocks,
And another form create
To be subservient to my fate.

‘Let us agree to give up love,
And root up the Infernal Grove;
Then shall we return and see
The worlds of happy Eternity.

‘And throughout all Eternity
I forgive you, you forgive me.
As our dear Redeemer said:
“This the Wine, and this the Bread.”’