WILLIAM BLAKE 1757–1828

Awake, awake, my little boy! Thou wast thy mother’s only joy. Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep? Awake, thy Father does thee keep.

‘O, what land is the Land of Dreams, What are its mountains and what are its streams? O father, I saw my mother there, Among the lilies by waters fair.

‘Among the lambs clothed in white, She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight; I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn, O, when shall I again return?’

Dear child, I also by pleasant streams Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams, But though calm and warm the waters wide, I could not get to the other side.

‘Father, O Father! what do we here, In this land of unbelief and fear? The Land of Dreams is better far Above the light of the morning star.’

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.’ So I piped; he wept to hear.

‘Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, Sing thy songs of happy cheer.’ So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear.

‘Piper, sit thee down and write In a hook that all may read’: So he vanished from my sight, And I plucked a hollow reed;

And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.

’Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green; Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul’s they like Thames waters flow.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own; The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.

Now, like a mighty wind, they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among; Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

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? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and 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 watered 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?

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 enjoyed in you! The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forced, the notes are few.

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.