CategoryWilliam Blake

To Spring

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O THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down Thro’ the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring! The hills tell each other, and the list’ning Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turnèd Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth, And let thy holy feet visit our clime. Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss...

To Winter

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‘O WINTER! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.’ He hears me not, but o’er the yawning deep Rides heavy; his storms are unchain’d, sheathèd In ribbèd steel; I dare not lift mine eyes, For he hath rear’d his sceptre o’er the world. Lo! now the direful monster, whose...

To the Evening Star

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William Blake (1757–1827). Thou fair-hair’d angel of the evening, Now, whilst 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, scatter thy silver dew On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on The lake; speak...

Fair Elenor

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William Blake (1757–1827).  THE BELL struck one, and shook the silent tower; The graves give up their dead: fair Elenor Walk’d by the castle gate, and lookèd in. A hollow groan ran thro’ the dreary vaults. She shriek’d aloud, and sunk upon the steps,         On the cold stone her pale cheeks. Sickly smells Of death issue as from a sepulchre, And all is silent but the...

Song: My silks and fine array

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William Blake (1757–1827). My silks and fine array, My smiles and languish’d air, By love are driv’n away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave; Such end true lovers have. His face is fair as heav’n When springing buds unfold; O why to him was ’t giv’n Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is love’s all-worshipp’d tomb, Where all love’s pilgrims come. Bring me an axe and...

A War Song to Englishmen

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William Blake (1757–1827). Prepare, prepare the iron helm of war, Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb; Th’ Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands, And casts them out upon the darken’d earth!                     Prepare, prepare!         Prepare your hearts for Death’s cold hand! prepare Your souls for flight...

To the Muses

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WHETHER on Ida’s shady brow, Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, that now From ancient melody have ceas’d; 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         Wand’ring in...

To Morning

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O HOLY virgin! clad in purest white,
Unlock heav’n’s golden gates, and issue forth;
Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light
Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring
The honey’d dew that cometh on waking day.         5
O radiant morning, salute the sun
Rous’d like a huntsman to the chase, and with
Thy buskin’d feet appear upon our hills.
William Blake (1757–1827).

I love the jocund dance

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I LOVE the jocund dance, The softly breathing song, Where innocent eyes do glance, And where lisps the maiden’s tongue. I love the laughing vale,          I love the echoing hill, Where mirth does never fail, And the jolly swain laughs his fill. I love the pleasant cot, I love the innocent bow’r,          Where white and brown is our lot, Or fruit...

On Another’s Sorrow

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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...