The Poems of William Blake: Comprising Songs of Innocence and of Experience, Together with Poetical Sketches and Some Copyright Poems Not in Any Other Collection (Google eBook)

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Pickering and Chatto, 1887 - 165 pages
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Page 87 - Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me: "Pipe a song about a Lamb!' So I piped with merry cheer. 'Piper, pipe that song again;
Page 89 - I'll tell thee: He is called by thy name, For He calls Himself a Lamb. He is meek, and He is mild, He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by his name. Little lamb, God bless thee!
Page 127 - I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I water'd it in fears, Night & 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...
Page 146 - Shudders hell thro' all its regions. A dog starv'd 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. A skylark wounded in the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing. The game-cock dipt and arm'd for fight Does the rising sun affright.
Page 91 - 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 161 - 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 In England's green and pleasant land.
Page 105 - No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small bird's grief and care, Hear the woes that infants...
Page 112 - The Sick Rose O rose, thou art sick; The invisible worm That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.
Page 111 - Infant Sorrow MY mother groan'd! my father wept. Into the dangerous world I leapt: Helpless, naked, piping loud: Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
Page 98 - Where birds are cover'd warm; They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm. If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed.

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