The Poems of William Blake (Google eBook)

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Lawrence & Bullen, 1893 - 251 pages
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Page 74 - 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 seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
Page 207 - And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen? And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark Satanic Mills? Bring me my Bow of burning gold : Bring me my Arrows of desire : Bring me my Spear : O clouds unfold ! Bring me my Chariot of fire. I will not cease from Mental Fight, Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand Till we have built Jerusalem...
Page 59 - WHEN the voices of children are heard on the green, And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast, And everything else is still. 'Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, And the dews of night arise ; Come, come, leave off play, and let us away, Till the morning appears in the skies.
Page 50 - And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud and like a shady grove.
Page 7 - My smiles and languished air, By love are driven away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have. His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold; Oh, why to him was't given, Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is love's all-worshipped tomb, Where all love's pilgrims come.
Page 168 - Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained; and the restrainer or Reason usurps its place & governs the unwilling. And being restrain'd, it by degrees becomes passive, till it is only the shadow of desire.
Page 49 - Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life and bade thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee? Little lamb, I'll tell thee; Little lamb, I'll tell thee. He is called...
Page 3 - Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth, And let thy holy feet visit our clime. Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee. O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head, Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee. To Summer O thou who passest thro' our valleys in Thy strength, curb...
Page 96 - Shudders hell through all its regions. A dog starved at his master's gate Predicts the ruin of the state. A horse misused upon the road Calls to Heaven for human blood. Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear.
Page 6 - Now whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed! Smile on our loves; and while thou drawest the Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes In timely sleep. Let thy West Wind sleep on The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes And wash the dusk with silver.

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