O, deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put

Thy golden crown upon her languished head,
Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee!
William Blake.

How sweet I roamed 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 showed me lilies for my hair,

And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through 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.

MY SILKS

306

William Blake.

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.

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.

William Blake.

309

A SONG OF SINGING

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 book, 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.

William Blake.

And that I was a maiden Queen
Guarded by an Angel mild:
Witless woe was ne'er beguiled!

And I wept both night and day,
And he wiped my tears away;
And I wept both day and night,
And hid from him my heart's delight.

So he took his wings, and fled.
Then the morn blushed rosy red;
I dried my tears, and armed my fears
With ten thousand shields and spears.

Soon my Angel came again;
I was armed, he came in vain;
For the time of youth was fled,
And grey hairs were on my head.

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?

313

THE

SUNFLOWER

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!

314

CRADLE SONG

William Blake,

SLEEP, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night!
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.