Can I see another’s woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another’s grief, And not seek for kind relief? Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow’s share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d? Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! And can He who smiles...
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...
(This anonymous poem was blown by the wind into a slit trench at El Agheila, Libya, during a heavy bombardment). Stay with me, God. The night is dark, The night is cold: my little spark Of courage dies. The night is long; Be with me, God, and make me strong. I love a game. I love a fight. I hate the dark; I love the light. I love my child; I love my wife. I am no coward. I love life, Life with...
All last night I had quiet In a fragrant dream and warm: She became my Sabbath, And round my neck, her arm. I knew the warmth in my dreaming; The fragrance, I suppose, Was her hair about me, ...
Roses can wound, But not from having thorns they do most harm; Often the night gives, starry-sheen or moon’d, Deep in the soul alarm. And it hath been deep within my heart like fear, Girl, when you are near. The mist of sense, Wherein the soul goes shielded, can divide, And she must cringe and be ashamed, and wince, Not in appearance hide Of rose or girl from the blazing mastery Of bared...
William Blake (1757–1827). THE SUN descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower, In heaven’s high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell, green fields and happy groves, Where flocks have took delight. Where lambs have nibbled, silent...
William Blake (1757–1827).
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.
Our lives, discoloured with our present woes,
May still grow white and shine with happier hours.
So the pure limped stream, when foul with stains
Of rushing torrents and descending rains,
Works itself clear, and as it runs refines,
till by degrees the floating mirror shines;
Reflects each flower that on the border grows,
And a new heaven in it’s fair bosom shows.
William Blake (1757–1827).
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.
I went to the Garden of Love, And I saw what I never had seen: A Chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green. And the gates of this Chapel were shut, And „Thou shalt not.“ Writ over the door; So I turn’d to the Garden of Love, That so many sweet flowers bore. And I saw it was filled with graves, And tomb-stones where flowers should be: And Priests in black gowns, were walking...