Part 2 — SONG
Reading edition
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 ax and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made, Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay: True love doth pass away!
William Blake [1757-1827]