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Jerusalem

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

In England's green and pleasant land.

William Blake

Auguries of Innocence

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.

William Blake

Song: My silks and fine array

MY silks and fine array,

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;

O, 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.

Bring me an axe and spade,

Bring me a winding-sheet;

When I my grade have made,

Let winds and tempest beat:

Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay.

True love doth pass away!

William Blake

The Two Songs

I HEARD an Angel Singing

When the day was springing:

"Mercy, pity, and peace,

Are the world's release."

So he sang all day

Over the new-mown hay,

Till the sun went down,

And the haycocks looked brown.

I heard a devil curse

Over the heath and the furse:

"Mercy vould be no more

If there were nobody poor,

And pity no more could be

If all were happy as ye:

And mutual fear brings peace,

Misery's increase

Are mercy, pity, and peace."

At his curse the sun went down,

And the heavens gave a frown.

William Blake

Love's Secret

NEVER seek to tell thy love,

Love that never told can be;

For the gentle wind doth 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 after she was gone from me

A traveller came by,

Silently, invisibly,

He took her with a sigh.

William Blake

To the Evening Star

THOU fair-haired Angel of the Evening,

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.--Soon, full soon,

Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,

And the lion glares through the dun forest:

The fleeces of our flocks are covered with

Thy sacred dew; protect them with thine influence!

William Blake

To Morning

O HOLY virgin! clad in purest white,

Unlock heaven's golden gates and issue forth

Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light

Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring

The honey'd dew that cometh on waking day.

O radiant morning, salute the sun,

Roused like a huntsman to the chase, and with

Thy buskin'd feet appear upon our hills.

William Blake

Fair Eleanor

THE bell struck one and shook the silent tower

The graves give up their dead: fair Eleanor

Walk'd by the castle-gate, and looked in:

A hollow groan ran thro' the dreary vaults.

She shriek'd aloud, and sunk upon the steps,

On the cold stone her pale cheek. Sickly smells

Of death, issue as from a sepulchre,

And all is silent but the sighing vaults.

Chill death withdraws his hand, and she revives;

Amazed she finds herself upon her feet,

And, like a ghost, thro' narrow passages

Walking, feeling the cold walls with her hands.

Fancy returns, and now she thinks of bones

And grinning skulls, and corruptible death

Wrapt in his shroud; and now fancies she hears

Deep sighs, and sees pale sickly ghosts gliding.

At length, no fancy, but reality

Distracts her. A rushing sound, and the feet

Of one that fled, approaches.--Ellen stood,

Like a dumb statue, froze to stone with fear.

The wretch approaches, crying, "The deed is done;

"Take this, and send it by whom thou wilt send;

"It is my life--send it to Eleanor--

"He's dead, and howling after me for blood!

"Take this," he cried; and thrust into her arms

A wet napkin, wrapt about; then rush'd

Past, howling: she received into her arms

Pale death, and follow'd on the wings of fear.

They pass'd swift thro' the outer gate; the wretch,

Howling, leap'd o'er the wall into the moat,

Stifling in mud. Fair Ellen pass'd the bridge,

And heard a gloomy voice cry, "Is it done ?"

As the deer wounded Ellen flew over

The pathless plain as the arrows that fly

By night; destruction flies, and strikes in darkness.

She fled from fear, till at her house arrived.

Her maids await her on her bed she falls,

That bed of joy where erst her lord hath press'd:

"Ah, woman's fear!" she cried, "Ah, cursed duke!

"Ah, my dear lord! ah, wretched Eleanor!

"My lord was like a flower upon the brows

"Of lusty May! Ah, life as frail as flower!

"O ghastly death! withdraw thy cruel hand,

"Seek'st thou that flower to deck thy horrid temples?

"My lord was like a star in highest heaven

"Drawn down to earth by spells and wickedness;

"My lord was like the opening eyes of day,

"When western winds creep softly o'er the flowers.

"But he is darken'd; like the summer's noon

"Clouded; fall'n like the stately tree, cut down;

"The breath of heaven dwelt among his leaves.

"O Eleanor, weak woman, fill'd with woe!"

Thus having spoke, she raised up her head,

And saw the bloody napkin by her side,

Which in her arms she brought; and now, tenfold

More terrified, saw it unfold itself.

Her eyes were fix'd; the bloody cloth unfolds,

Disclosing to her sight the murder'd head

Of her dear lord, all ghastly pale, clotted

With gory blood it groan'd, and thus it spake:

"O Eleanor, behold thy husband's head

"Who, sleeping on the stones of yonder tower,

"Was 'reft of life by the accursed duke!

"A hired villain turn'd my sleep to death!

"O Eleanor, beware the cursed duke,

"O give not him thy hand, now I am dead;

"He seeks thy love who, coward, in the night,

"Hired a villain to bereave my life."

She sat with dead cold limbs, stiffen'd to stone

She took the gory head up in her arms;

She kiss'd the pale lips; she had no tears to shed ;

She hugg'd it to her breast, and groan'd her last.

William Blake

Song: How sweet I roamed from field to field

HOW sweet I roam'd from field to field

And tasted all the summer's pride,

Till I the Prince of Love beheld

Who in the sunny beams did glide.

He shew'd me lilies for my hair,

And blushing roses for my brow;

He led me thro' his gardens fair

Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May-dews my wings were wet,

And Phoebus fired my vocal rage;

He caught me in his silken net,

And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,

Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;

Then stretches out my golden wing

And mocks my loss of liberty.

William Blake

Song: Love and harmony combine

LOVE and harmony combine

And around our souls entwine,

While thy branches mix with mine

And our roots together join.

Joys upon our branches sit

Chirping loud and singing sweet;

Like gentle streams beneath our feet

Innocence and virtue meet.

Thou the golden fruit dost bear,

I am clad in flowers fair;

Thy sweet boughs perfume the air,

And the turtle buildeth there.

There she sits and feeds her young,

Sweet I hear her mournful song;

And thy lovely leaves among

There is love; I hear his tongue.

There his charming nest doth lay,

There he sleeps the night away

There he sports along the day

And doth among our branches play.

William Blake

Song: I love the jocund dance

I LOVE the jocund dance,

The softly-breathing song,

Where innocent eyes do glance

And where lisps the maiden's tongue.

I love the laughing vale,

I love the echoing hill,

Where mirth does never fail,

And the jolly swain laughs his fill.

I love the pleasant cot,

I love the innocent bower,

Where white and brown is our lot

Or fruit in the mid-day hour.

I love the oaken seat,

Beneath the oaken tree,

Where all the old villagers meet,

And laugh our sports to see.

I love our neighbours all,

But, Kitty, I better love thee

And love them I ever shall,

But thou art all to me.

William Blake

Song: Memory, come hither

MEMORY, come hither

And tune your merry notes;

And while upon the wind

Your music floats

I'll pore upon the stream

Where sighing lovers dream,

And fish for fancies as they pass

Within the watery glass.

I'll drink of the clear stream

And hear the linnet's song,

And there I'll lie and dream

The day along:

And, when night comes, I'll go

To places fit for woe

Walking along the darken'd valley

With silent Melancholy.

William Blake

Mad Song

THE wild winds weep,

And the night is a-cold;

Come hither, Sleep,

And my griefs enfold:

But lo! the morning peeps

Over the eastern steeps,

And the rustling beds of dawn

The earth do scorn.

Lo! to the vault

Of paved heaven,

With sorrow fraught

My notes are driven:

They strike the ear of night,

Make weep the eyes of day;

They make mad the roaring winds,

And with tempests play.

Like a fiend in a cloud

With howling woe,

After night I do crowd

And with night will go;

I turn my back to the east

From whence comforts have increased;

For light doth seize my brain

With frantic pain.

William Blake

Song: When early morn walks forth in sober gray

WHEN early morn walks forth in sober gray,

Then to my black-eyed maid I haste away,

When evening sits beneath her dusky bower

And gently sighs away the silent hour,

The village bell alarms, away I go,

And the vale darkens at my pensive woe.

To that sweet village, where my black-eyed maid

Doth drop a tear beneath the silent shade,

I turn my eyes; and pensive as I go

Curse my black stars, and bless my pleasing woe.

Oft when the summer sleeps among the trees,

Whispering faint murmurs to the scanty breeze,

I walk the village round; if at her side

A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride,

I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe,

That made my love so high, and me so low.

O should she e'er prove false, his limbs I'd tear,

And throw all pity on the burning air;

I'd curse bright fortune for my mixed lot,

And then I'd die in peace, and be forgot.

William Blake

To the Muses

WHETHER on Ida's shady brow

Or in the chambers of the East,

The chambers of the Sun, that now

From ancient melody have ceased;

Whether in heaven 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

Wandering 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 forced, the notes are few!

William Blake

Fresh from the dewy hill

FRESH from the dewy hill, the merry year

Smiles on my head and mounts his flaming car;

Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade

And rising glories beam around my head.

My feet are wing'd while o'er the dewy lawn

I meet my maiden risen like the morn.

Oh bless those holy feet, like angels' feet;

Oh bless those limbs, beaming with heavenly light!

Like as an angel glittering in the sky

In times of innocence and holy joy;

The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song

To hear the music of an angel's tongue.

So when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear;

So when we walk, nothing impure comes near;

Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat;

Each village seems the haunt of holy feet.

But that sweet village, where my black-eyed maid

Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade,

Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire

Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire.

William Blake

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