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

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.