1.Milton [excerpt] by William Blake 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. 2.The Divine Image by William Blake To Mercy,Pity,Peace,and Love, All pray in their distress: And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness. For Mercy,Pity,Peace,and Love, Is God,our father dear: And Mercy,Pity,Peace,and Love, Is Man,his child and care. For Mercy has a human heart, Pity,a human face: And Love,the human form divine, And Peace,the human dress
1.Milton [excerpt] by William Blake 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. 2. The Divine Image by William Blake To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, All pray in their distress: And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness. For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, Is God, our father dear: And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, Is Man, his child and care. For Mercy has a human heart, Pity, a human face: And Love, the human form divine, And Peace, the human dress
Then every man of every clime, That prays in his distress, Prays to the human form divine, Love,Mercy,Pity,Peace. And all must love the human form, In heathen,Turk,or Jew. Where Mercy,Love,Pity dwell, There God is dwelling too. 3.The Chimney-Sweeper by William Blake When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry'Weep！weep！weep！weep！' So your chimneys I sweep,and in soot I sleep. There's little Tom Dacre,who cried when his head, That curled like a lamb's back,was shaved;so I said, 'Hush,Tom!never mind it,for,when your head's bare, You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.' And so he was quiet,and that very night, As Tom was a-sleeping,he had such a sight!-- That thousands of sweepers,Dick,Joe,Ned,and Jack, Were all of them locked up in coffins of black. And by came an angel,who had a bright key, And he opened the coffins,and set them all free; Then down a green plain,leaping,laughing,they run And wash in a river,and shine in the sun. Then naked and white,all their bags left behind, They rise upon clouds,and sport in the wind; And the angel told Tom,if he'd be a good boy, He'd have God for his father,and never want joy. And so Tom awoke,and we rose in the dark, And got with our bags and our brushes to work. Though the morning was cold,Tom was happy and warm:
Then every man of every clime, That prays in his distress, Prays to the human form divine, Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. And all must love the human form, In heathen, Turk, or Jew. Where Mercy, Love, & Pity dwell, There God is dwelling too. 3. The Chimney-Sweeper by William Blake When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry 'Weep! weep! weep! weep!' So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep. There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head, That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said, 'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare, You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.' And so he was quiet, and that very night, As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!-- That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack, Were all of them locked up in coffins of black. And by came an angel, who had a bright key, And he opened the coffins, and set them all free; Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run And wash in a river, and shine in the sun. Then naked and white, all their bags left behind, They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind; And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy, He'd have God for his father, and never want joy. And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark, And got with our bags and our brushes to work. Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So,if all do their duty,they need not fear harm. 4.The Fly by William Blake Little fly, Thy summer's play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away. Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me? For I dance And drink and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing. If thought is life And strength and breath, And the want Of thought is death, Then am I A happy fly, If I live, Or if I die. 5.The Schoolboy I love to rise in a summer morn, When the birds sing on every tree; The distant huntsman winds his horn, And the skylark sings with me: O what sweet company！ But to go to school in a summer morn,- O it drives all joy away! Under a cruel eye outworn
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm. 4. The Fly by William Blake Little fly, Thy summer’s play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away. Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me? For I dance And drink and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing. If thought is life And strength and breath, And the want Of thought is death, Then am I A happy fly, If I live, Or if I die. 5. The Schoolboy I love to rise in a summer morn, When the birds sing on every tree; The distant huntsman winds his horn, And the skylark sings with me: O what sweet company! But to go to school in a summer morn, - O it drives all joy away! Under a cruel eye outworn
The little ones spend the day In sighing and dismay. Ah then at times I drooping sit, And spend many an anxious hour; Nor in my book can I take delight. Nor sit in learning's bower, Worn through with the dreary shower. How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? How can a child,when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring! O father and mother if buds are nipped, And blossoms blown away; And if the tender plants are stripped Of their joy in the springing day, By sorrow and care's dismay, How shall the summer arise in joy, Or the summer fruits appear? Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy, Or bless the mellowing year, When the blasts of winter appear? 6.Holy Thursday by William Blake Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land, Babes reduced to misery Fed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song of joy? And so many children poor? It is a land of poverty! And their sun does never shine. And their fields are bleak bare. And their ways are fill'd with thorns
The little ones spend the day In sighing and dismay. Ah then at times I drooping sit, And spend many an anxious hour; Nor in my book can I take delight, Nor sit in learning's bower, Worn through with the dreary shower. How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? How can a child, when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring! O father and mother if buds are nipped, And blossoms blown away; And if the tender plants are stripped Of their joy in the springing day, By sorrow and care's dismay, - How shall the summer arise in joy, Or the summer fruits appear? Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy, Or bless the mellowing year, When the blasts of winter appear? 6. Holy Thursday by William Blake Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land, Babes reduced to misery Fed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song of joy? And so many children poor? It is a land of poverty! And their sun does never shine. And their fields are bleak & bare. And their ways are fill'd with thorns
It is eternal winter there. For where-e'er the sun does shine, And where-e'er the rain does fall: Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appall. 7.Cradle Song by William Blake Sleep,sleep,beauty bright, Dreaming in the joys of night; Sleep,sleep;in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep. Sweet babe,in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles. As thy softest limbs I feel Smiles as of the morning steal O'er thy cheek,and o'er thy breast Where thy little heart doth rest. O the cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep! When thy little heart doth wake, Then the dreadful night shall break. 8.Love's Secret by William Blake 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
It is eternal winter there. For where-e’er the sun does shine, And where-e’er the rain does fall: Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appall. 7. Cradle Song by William Blake Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, Dreaming in the joys of night; Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep. Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles. As thy softest limbs I feel Smiles as of the morning steal O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast Where thy little heart doth rest. O the cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep! When thy little heart doth wake, Then the dreadful night shall break. 8. Love's Secret by William Blake 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. 9.Ah!Sunflower by William Blake Ah!sunflower,weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun, Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller's journey is done; Where the youth pined away with desire, And the pale virgin shrouded in snow, Arise from their graves and aspire; Where my sunflower wishes to go. 10.The Tyger by William Blake Tyger!Tyger!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 sieze the fire? And what shoulder,&what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand?&what dread feet?
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. 9. Ah! Sunflower by William Blake Ah! sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun, Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller’s journey is done; Where the youth pined away with desire, And the pale virgin shrouded in snow, Arise from their graves and aspire; Where my sunflower wishes to go. 10. The Tyger by William Blake Tyger! Tyger! 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 sieze the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & 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 water'd heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger!Tyger!burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 1.On First Looking into Chapman's Homer by John Keats Much have I traveled in the realms of gold And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet never did I breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific-and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise- Silent,upon a peak in Darien. 2.The Human Seasons by John Keats Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; There are four seasons in the mind of man:
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 water'd heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 1.On First Looking into Chapman's Homer by John Keats Much have I traveled in the realms of gold And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet never did I breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific—and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 2. The Human Seasons by John Keats Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring,when fancy clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span: He has his Summer,when luxuriously Spring's honeyed cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate,and by such dreaming high Is nearest unto Heaven:quiet coves His soul has in its Autumn,when his wings He furleth close;contented so to look On mists in idleness-to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:- He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 3.To a Friend who sent me some Roses by John Keats As late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew From his lush clover covert;-when anew Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields: I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, A fresh-blown musk-rose;'twas the first that threw Its sweets upon the summer:graceful it grew As is the wand that queen Titania wields. And,as I feasted on its fragrancy, I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd: But when,O Wells!thy roses came to me My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd: Soft voices had they,that with tender plea Whisper'd of peace,and truth,and friendliness unquell'd. 4.Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span: He has his Summer, when luxuriously Spring's honeyed cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming high Is nearest unto Heaven: quiet coves His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He furleth close; contented so to look On mists in idleness—to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:— He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 3. To a Friend who sent me some Roses by John Keats As late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew From his lush clover covert;—when anew Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields: I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew As is the wand that queen Titania wields. And, as I feasted on its fragrancy, I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd: But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd: Soft voices had they, that with tender plea Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd. 4. Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats 1
My heart aches,and a drowsy numbness pains My sense,as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past,and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,- That thou,light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green,and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 2. O,for a draught of vintage!that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance,and Provencal song,and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true,the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink,and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 3. Fade far away,dissolve,and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness,the fever,and the fret Here,where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few,sad,last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale,and spectre-thin,and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 4. Away！away！for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee!tender is the night
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,— That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 2. O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 3. Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 4. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 5. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But,in embalmed darkness,guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass,the thicket,and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn,and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose,full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 6. Darkling I listen;and,for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy！ Still wouldst thou sing,and I have ears in vain- To thy high requiem become a sod. 1. Thou wast not born for death,immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth,when,sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements,opening on the foam Of perilous seas,in faery lands forlorn
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 5. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 6. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod. 7. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn
