THE TIGER

          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, & 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 mad the Lamb make thee?

          Tiger, Tiger burning bright,
          In the forests of the night:
          What immortal hand or eye,
          Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

          THE LAMB

              Little Lamb, who made thee?
              Dost thou know who made thee?
          Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
          By the stream and o'er the mead;
          Gave thee clothing of delight,
          Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
          Gave thee such a tender voice,
          Making all the vales rejoice?
              Little Lamb, who made thee?
              Dost thou know who made thee?

              Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,
              Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:
          He is called by thy name,
          For he calls himself a Lamb
          He is meek, and he is mild;
          He became a little child.
          I a child, and thou a lamb,
          We are called by his name.
              Little Lamb, God bless thee!
              Little Lamb, God bless thee!

          LONDON

          I wander through each chartered street,
          Near where the chartered 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-forged manacles I hear.

          How the chimney-sweeper's cry
          Every black'ning church appalls;
          And the hapless soldier's sigh
          Runs in blood down palace walls.

          But most through midnight streets I hear
          How the youthful harlot's curse
          Blasts the new-born infants tear,
          And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.
          POISON TREE

          I was angry with my friend:
          I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
          I was angry with my foe:
          I told it not, my wrath did grow.

          And I water'd it in fears,
          Night & morning with my tears:
          And I sunned it with smiles,
          And with soft deceitful wiles.

          And it grew both day and night,
          Till it bore an apple bright;
          And my foe beheld it shine,
          And he knew that it was mine,

          And into my garden stole
          When the night had veil'd the pole:
          In the morning glad I see
          My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree.

          THE FLY

          Little Fly,
          Thy summer's play
          My thoughtless hand
          Has brush'd away.

          Am not I
          A fly like thee?
          Or art not thou
          A man like me?

          For I dance,
          And drink, & sing,
          Till some blind hand
          Shall brush my wing.

          If thought is life
          And strength & breath,
          And the want
          Of thought is death;

          Then am I
          A happy fly,
          If I live
          Or if I die.

          AND DID THOSE FEET IN ANCIENT TIME

          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 & pleasant Land.

          PIPING DOWN THE VALLEYS WILD

          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 chear.
          "Piper pipe that song again" -
          So I piped, he wept to hear.

          "Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe
          Sing thy songs of happy chear";
          So I sung 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 vanish'd from my sight.
          And I pluck'd a hollow reed,

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

          THE SICK ROSE

          O Rose, thou art sick.
          The invisible worm
          That flies in the night
          In the howling storm

          Has found out thy bed
          Of crimson joy,
          And his dark secret love
          Does thy life destroy.

          AH! SUN-FLOWER

          Ah Sun-flower! 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 Sun-flower wishes to go.

          HEAR THE VOICE OF THE BARD

          Hear the voice of the Bard!
          Who Present, Past and Future, sees
          Whose ears have heard
          The Holy Word,
          That walk'd among the ancient trees.

          Calling the lapsed Soul
          And weeping in the evening dew;
          That might controll
          The starry pole;
          And fallen, fallen light renew!

          O Earth, O Earth, return!
          Arise from out the dewy grass;
          Night is worn,
          And the morn
          Rises from the slumberous mass.

          Turn away no more:
          Why wilt thou turn away
          The starry floor
          The wat'ry shore
          Is giv'n thee till the break of day.

          HOW SWEET I ROAM'D FROM FIELD TO FIELD

          How sweet I roam'd 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 show'd 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 fir'd my vocal rage;
          He caught me in his silken net,
          And shut me in his golden cage.

          He love 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.