(1757 - 1827)
The Sick Rose
O Rose, thou art sick.
The invisible worm
That flies in the night
I the howling strom
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
My Pretty Rose Tree
A flower was offerd to me;
Such a flower as May never bore,
But I said, "I've a Pretty Rose-tree,"
And I passed the sweet flower o`er.
Then I went to my Pretty Rose-tree,
To tend her by day and by night.
But my Rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.
London
I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter`d Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear:
How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.
But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born Infants's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
The Human Abstract
Pity would be no more,
Ifwe did not make somebody poor;
And Mercy no more could be,
If all were as happy as we;
And mutual fear brings peace,
Till the selfish loves increase;
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care.
He sits down with holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears;
Then Humility takes root
Underneath his foot.
Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head;
And the Catterpiller and Fly
Feed on the Mystery.
And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat;
And the Raven his nest made
In it's thickest shade.
The Gods of the earth and sea,
Sought thro' Nature to find this Tree,
But theit search was all in vain:
There grows one in the Human Brain.
To the Evening Star
Thou fair-hair'd angel of the evening,
Now, while 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, scotter 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 fleeces of our flocks are cover'd with
Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.
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