William Blake - Songs of Innocence and Experience PDF

Coradella Collegiate Bookshelf Editions.
Songs of Innocence
and
Songs of Experience.
William Blake.

Contents
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William Blake. Songs of Innocence and Experience. http://collegebookshelf.net
About the author Blake's first collection of poems, Poetical Sketches, was published circa
1783. In 1788, at the age of thirty-one, Blake began to experiment
with "relief etching", which was the method used to produce most of
William Blake (November 28, 1757- his books of poems. Blake claimed the method was revealed to him in
August 12, 1827) was an English poet, a vision of his dead brother, Robert. The process is also referred to as
mystic, painter and printmaker, or "Au- "illuminated printing," and final products as "illuminated books" or
thor & Printer," as he signed many of "prints." Illuminated printing involved writing the text of the poems
his books. on copper plates with pens and brushes, using an acid-resistant me-
dium. Illustrations could appear alongside words in the manner of
earlier illuminated manuscripts. He then etched the plates in acid in
order to dissolve away the untreated copper and leave the design
standing. The pages printed from these plates then had to be hand-
Blake was born at 28 Broad Street, Golden Square, London, En- colored in water colors and stiched together to make up a volume.
gland into a middle-class family. His artistic talent was noticed and Blake used illuminated printing for four of his works: the Songs of
encouraged from an early age. At ten years old, he began engraving Innocence and Experience, The Book of Thel, The Marriage of Heaven
copies of drawings of Greek antiquities, a practice that was then and Hell, and Jerusalem. Each of his illuminated books was thus a
preferred to real-life drawing. Four years later he became apprenticed unique work of art and a radical break with not only traditional book
to an engraver, Henry Basire. After two years Basire sent him to copy printing but the traditional means of presenting poetic and philosophical
art from the Gothic churches in London. At the age of twenty-one discourse. Blake seems to have believed, or rather hoped, that self-
Blake finished his apprenticeship and set up as a professional en- published books could liberate the artist and author from the tyranny
graver. of censorship by Church and State but its time-consuming nature
meant that his most personal and prophetic works reached a minute
In 1779 he became a student at the Royal Academy, where he re- audience in his lifetime.
belled against what he regarded as the unfinished style of fashion-
able painters such as Rubens. He preferred the Classical exactness Read more about William Blake at Wikipedia.
of Michelangelo and Raphael.
In 1782 Blake met John Flaxman, who was to become his patron. In
the same year he married a poor illiterate girl named Catherine
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Boucher, who was five years his junior. Catherine could neither read
nor write and even signed her wedding contract with an X. Blake
taught her reading and writing and even trained her as an engraver.
At that time, George Cumberland, one of the founders of the Na-
tional Gallery, became an admirer of Blake's work.
SONGS OF EXPERIENCE
Contents Introduction
Earth’s Answer
The Clod and the Pebble
Holy Thursday
The Little Girl Lost
SONGS OF INNOCENCE
The Little Girl Found
The Chimney-Sweeper Click on a poem to jump to the page in
Introduction the file.
Nurse’s Song
The Shepherd The Sick Rose Note:
The Echoing Green The Fly The best way to read this ebook is in Full
Screen mode: click View, Full Screen to
The Lamb The Angel
set Adobe Acrobat to Full Screen View.
The Little Black Boy The Tiger This mode allows you to use Page Down
The Blossom My Pretty Rose-Tree to go to the next page, and affords the
Ah, Sunflower best reading view. Press Escape to exit the
The Chimney-Sweeper Full Screen View.
The Lily
The Little Boy Lost
The Garden of Love
The Little Boy Pound
The Little Vagabond
Laughing Song London
A Cradle Song The Human Abstract
The Divine Image Infant Sorrow
Holy Thursday A Poison Tree
Night A Little Boy Lost
Spring A Little Girl Lost
A Divine Image
Contents
Nurse’s Song
Infant Joy A Cradle Song
The Schoolboy
A Dream
To Tirzah
On Another’s Sorrow
The Voice of the Ancient Bard
William Blake. Songs of Innocence and Experience. http://collegebookshelf.net 1
Songs of
Innocence Songs of Innocence.
and Introduction.
Songs of Piping down the valleys wild,

Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
Experience And he laughing said to me:
by William Blake ‘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;

NOTICE
Copyright © 2004 thewritedirection.net Sing thy songs of happy cheer!’
Please note that although the text of this ebook is in the So I sung the same again,
Contents
public domain, this pdf edition is a copyrighted

publication. While he wept with joy to hear.
FOR COMPLETE DETAILS, SEE
COLLEGEBOOKSHELF.NET/COPYRIGHTS
‘Piper, sit thee down and write
2 3
In a book, that all may read.’ The Echoing Green.

So he vanished from my sight;
And I plucked a hollow reed, The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies;
And I made a rural pen, The merry bells ring
And I stained the water clear, To welcome the Spring;
And I wrote my happy songs The skylark and thrush,
Every child may joy to hear. The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around
To the bells’ cheerful sound;
While our sports shall be seen
On the echoing green.
The Shepherd. Old John, with white hair,

Does laugh away care,
How sweet is the shepherd’s sweet lot! Sitting under the oak,
From the morn to the evening he strays; Among the old folk.
He shall follow his sheep all the day, They laugh at our play,
And his tongue shall be filled with praise. And soon they all say,
‘Such, such were the joys
For he hears the lambs’ innocent call, When we all—girls and boys -
And he hears the ewes’ tender reply; In our youth-time were seen
He is watchful while they are in peace, On the echoing green.’
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For they know when their shepherd is nigh.

Till the little ones, weary,
No more can be merry:
4 5
The sun does descend, He is called by thy name,

And our sports have an end. For He calls Himself a Lamb.
Round the laps of their mothers He is meek, and He is mild,
Many sisters and brothers, He became a little child.
Like birds in their nest, I a child, and thou a lamb,
Are ready for rest, We are called by His name.
And sport no more seen Little lamb, God bless thee!
On the darkening green. Little lamb, God bless thee!
The Lamb. The Little Black Boy.
Little lamb, who made thee? My mother bore me in the southern wild,
Does thou know who made thee, And I am black, but O my soul is white!
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed White as an angel is the English child,
By the stream and o’er the mead; But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright; My mother taught me underneath a tree,
Gave thee such a tender voice, And, sitting down before the heat of day,
Making all the vales rejoice? She took me on her lap and kissed me,
Little lamb, who made thee? And, pointing to the East, began to say:
Does thou know who made thee?
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‘Look on the rising sun: there God does live,

Little lamb, I’ll tell thee; And gives His light, and gives His heat away,
Little lamb, I’ll tell thee: And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
6 7
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. The Blossom.
‘And we are put on earth a little space, Merry, merry sparrow!

That we may learn to bear the beams of love; Under leaves so green
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face A happy blossom
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. Sees you, swift as arrow,
Seek your cradle narrow,
‘For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear, Near my bosom.
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, Pretty, pretty robin!
Saying, “Come out from the grove, my love and care, Under leaves so green
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.”’ A happy blossom
Hears you sobbing, sobbing,
Thus did my mother say, and kissed me, Pretty, pretty robin,
And thus I say to little English boy. Near my bosom.
When I from black, and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,
I’ll shade him from the heat till he can bear The Chimney-Sweeper.
To lean in joy upon our Father’s knee;
And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair, When my mother died I was very young,
And be like him, and he will then love me. And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry ‘Weep! weep! weep! weep!’
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
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There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,

That curled like a lamb’s back, was shaved; so I said,
8 9
‘Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head’s bare, The Little Boy Lost.
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.’
‘Father, father, where are you going?
And so he was quiet, and that very night, O do not walk so fast!
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight! - Speak, father, speak to your little boy,
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack, Or else I shall be lost.’
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.
The night was dark, no father was there,
And by came an angel, who had a bright key, The child was wet with dew;
And he opened the coffins, and set them all free; The mire was deep, and the child did weep,
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run And away the vapour flew.
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.
Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,

They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind: The Little Boy Found.
And the angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his father, and never want joy. The little boy lost in the lonely fen,
Led by the wandering light,
And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark, Began to cry, but God, ever nigh,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work. Appeared like his father, in white.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm. He kissed the child, and by the hand led,
And to his mother brought,
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Who in sorrow pale, through the lonely dale,

Her little boy weeping sought.
10 11
Laughing Song. Sweet Sleep, with soft down

Weave thy brows an infant crown!
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, Sweet Sleep, angel mild,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; Hover o’er my happy child!
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it; Sweet smiles, in the night
Hover over my delight!
When the meadows laugh with lively green, Sweet smiles, mother’s smiles,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene; All the livelong night beguiles.
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing ‘Ha ha he!’ Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes!
When the painted birds laugh in the shade, Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread: All the dovelike moans beguiles.
Come live, and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of ‘Ha ha he!’ Sleep, sleep, happy child!
All creation slept and smiled.
Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,
While o’er thee thy mother weep.
A Cradle Song.
Sweet babe, in thy face
Sweet dreams, form a shade Holy image I can trace;
O’er my lovely infant’s head! Sweet babe, once like thee
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Sweet dreams of pleasant streams Thy Maker lay, and wept for me:
By happy, silent, moony beams!
Wept for me, for thee, for all,
12 13
When He was an infant small. And Peace the human dress.

Thou His image ever see,
Heavenly face that smiles on thee! Then every man, of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Smiles on thee, on me, on all, Prays to the human form divine:
Who became an infant small; Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.
Infant smiles are His own smiles;
Heaven and earth to peace beguiles. And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew.
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell,
There God is dwelling too.
The Divine Image.
To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,

All pray in their distress, Holy Thursday.
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness. ’Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and
For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, green:
Is God our Father dear; Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, as snow,
Is man, His child and care. Till into the high dome of Paul’s they like Thames waters
flow.
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For Mercy has a human heart;

Pity, a human face; O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of Lon-
And Love, the human form divine: don town!
14 15
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own.

The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of Farewell, green fields and happy groves,
lambs, Where flocks have took delight,
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves
hands. The feet of angels bright;
Unseen, they pour blessing,
Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of And joy without ceasing,
song, On each bud and blossom,
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven And each sleeping bosom.
among:
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the They look in every thoughtless nest
poor. Where birds are covered warm;
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
Night. They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.
The sun descending in the West,
The evening star does shine; When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
The birds are silent in their nest, They pitying stand and weep;
And I must seek for mine. Seeking to drive their thirst away,
The moon, like a flower And keep them from the sheep.
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In heaven’s high bower, But, if they rush dreadful,

With silent delight, The angels, most heedful,
Sits and smiles on the night. Receive each mild spirit,
16 17
New worlds to inherit. Day and night,

Nightingale,
And there the lion’s ruddy eyes In the dale,
Shall flow with tears of gold: Lark in sky, -
And pitying the tender cries, Merrily,
And walking round the fold: Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.
Saying: ‘Wrath by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness, Little boy,
Is driven away Full of joy;
From our immortal day. Little girl,
Sweet and small;
‘And now beside thee, bleating lamb, Cock does crow,
I can lie down and sleep, So do you;
Or think on Him who bore thy name, Merry voice,
Graze after thee, and weep. Infant noise;
For, washed in life’s river, Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold, Little lamb,
As I guard o’er the fold.’ Here I am;
Come and lick
My white neck;
Spring. Let me pull
Your soft wool;
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Sound the flute! Let me kiss

Now it’s mute! Your soft face;
Birds delight, Merrily, merrily we welcome in the year.
18 19
Nurse’s Song. What shall I call thee?

‘I happy am,
When voices of children are heard on the green, Joy is my name.’
And laughing is heard on the hill, Sweet joy befall thee!
My heart is at rest within my breast,
And everything else is still. Pretty joy!
‘Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, Sweet joy, but two days old.
And the dews of night arise; Sweet joy I call thee:
Come, come, leave off play, and let us away, Thou dost smile,
Till the morning appears in the skies.’ I sing the while;
Sweet joy befall thee!
‘No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,
And we cannot go to sleep;
Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,
And the hills are all covered with sheep.’ A Dream.
‘Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,
And then go home to bed.’ Once a dream did weave a shade
The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed, O’er my angel-guarded bed,
And all the hills echoed. That an emmet lost its way
Where on grass methought I lay.
Troubled, wildered, and forlorn,

Infant Joy. Dark, benighted, travel-worn,
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Over many a tangled spray,

‘I have no name; All heart-broke, I heard her say:
I am but two days old.’
20 21
‘O my children! do they cry, Can a father see his child

Do they hear their father sigh? Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?
Now they look abroad to see,
Now return and weep for me.’ Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
Pitying, I dropped a tear: No, no! never can it be!
But I saw a glow-worm near, Never, never can it be!
Who replied, ‘What wailing wight
Calls the watchman of the night?’ And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
‘I am set to light the ground, Hear the small bird’s grief and care,
While the beetle goes his round: Hear the woes that infants bear -
Follow now the beetle’s hum;
Little wanderer, hie thee home!’ And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant’s tear?
On Another’s Sorrow.
And not sit both night and day,
Can I see another’s woe, Wiping all our tears away?
And not be in sorrow too? O no! never can it be!
Can I see another’s grief, Never, never can it be!
And not seek for kind relief?
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He doth give His joy to all:

Can I see a falling tear, He becomes an infant small,
And not feel my sorrow’s share? He becomes a man of woe,
22 23
He doth feel the sorrow too.
Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,

And thy Maker is not by:
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.
O He gives to us His joy,

That our grief He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled and gone
He doth sit by us and moan. Songs of Experience.
Introduction.
Hear the voice of the Bard,

Who present, past, and future, sees;
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walked among the ancient trees;
Calling the lapsed soul,

And weeping in the evening dew;
Contents
That might control

The starry pole,
And fallen, fallen light renew!
24 25
Weeping o’er,
‘O Earth, O Earth, return! I hear the father of the ancient men.
Arise from out the dewy grass!
Night is worn, ‘Selfish father of men!
And the morn Cruel, jealous, selfish fear!
Rises from the slumbrous mass. Can delight,
Chained in night,
‘Turn away no more; The virgins of youth and morning bear.
Why wilt thou turn away?
The starry floor, ‘Does spring hide its joy,
The watery shore, When buds and blossoms grow?
Is given thee till the break of day.’ Does the sower
Sow by night,
Or the ploughman in darkness plough?
Earth’s Answer. ‘Break this heavy chain,

That does freeze my bones around!
Earth raised up her head Selfish, vain,
From the darkness dread and drear, Eternal bane,
Her light fled, That free love with bondage bound.’
Stony, dread,
And her locks covered with grey despair.
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‘Prisoned on watery shore,

Starry jealousy does keep my den
Cold and hoar;
26 27
The Clod and the Pebble. Is that trembling cry a song?

Can it be a song of joy?
‘Love seeketh not itself to please, And so many children poor?
Nor for itself hath any care, It is a land of poverty!
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell’s despair.’ And their sun does never shine,
And their fields are bleak and bare,
So sung a little clod of clay, And their ways are filled with thorns,
Trodden with the cattle’s feet, It is eternal winter there.
But a pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet: For where’er the sun does shine,
And where’er the rain does fall,
‘Love seeketh only Self to please, Babe can never hunger there,
To bind another to its delight, Nor poverty the mind appal.
Joys in another’s loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.’
The Little Girl Lost.
Holy Thursday. In futurity

I prophesy
Is this a holy thing to see That the earth from sleep
In a rich and fruitful land, - (Grave the sentence deep)
Contents
Babes reduced to misery,

Fed with cold and usurous hand? Shall arise, and seek
For her Maker meek;
28 29
And the desert wild Lyca shall not weep.

Become a garden mild.
‘Frowning, frowning night,
In the southern clime, O’er this desert bright
Where the summer’s prime Let thy moon arise,
Never fades away, While I close my eyes.’
Lovely Lyca lay.
Sleeping Lyca lay,
Seven summers old While the beasts of prey,
Lovely Lyca told. Come from caverns deep,
She had wandered long, Viewed the maid asleep.
Hearing wild birds’ song.
The kingly lion stood,
‘Sweet sleep, come to me, And the virgin viewed:
Underneath this tree; Then he gambolled round
Do father, mother, weep? O’er the hallowed ground.
Where can Lyca sleep?
Leopards, tigers, play
‘Lost in desert wild Round her as she lay;
Is your little child. While the lion old
How can Lyca sleep Bowed his mane of gold,
If her mother weep?
And her bosom lick,
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‘If her heart does ache, And upon her neck,

Then let Lyca wake; From his eyes of flame,
If my mother sleep, Ruby tears there came;
30 31
The fancied image strays,

While the lioness Famished, weeping, weak,
Loosed her slender dress, With hollow piteous shriek.
And naked they conveyed
To caves the sleeping maid. Rising from unrest,
The trembling woman pressed
With feet of weary woe;
She could no further go.
The Little Girl Found.
In his arms he bore
All the night in woe Her, armed with sorrow sore;
Lyca’s parents go Till before their way
Over valleys deep, A couching lion lay.
While the deserts weep.
Turning back was vain:
Tired and woe-begone, Soon his heavy mane
Hoarse with making moan, Bore them to the ground,
Arm in arm, seven days Then he stalked around,
They traced the desert ways.
Smelling to his prey;
Seven nights they sleep But their fears allay
Among shadows deep, When he licks their hands,
And dream they see their child And silent by them stands.
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Starved in desert wild.

They look upon his eyes,
Pale through pathless ways Filled with deep surprise;
32 33
And wondering behold The Chimney-Sweeper.

A spirit armed in gold.
A little black thing among the snow,
On his head a crown, Crying! ‘weep! weep!’ in notes of woe!
On his shoulders down ‘Where are thy father and mother? Say!’ -
Flowed his golden hair. ‘They are both gone up to the church to pray.
Gone was all their care.
‘Because I was happy upon the heath,
‘Follow me,’ he said; And smiled among the winter’s snow,
‘Weep not for the maid; They clothed me in the clothes of death,
In my palace deep, And taught me to sing the notes of woe.
Lyca lies asleep.’
‘And because I am happy and dance and sing,
Then they followed They think they have done me no injury,
Where the vision led, And are gone to praise God and His priest and king,
And saw their sleeping child Who made up a heaven of our misery.’
Among tigers wild.
To this day they dwell

In a lonely dell, Nurse’s Song.
Nor fear the wolvish howl
Nor the lion’s growl. When the voices of children are heard on the green,
And whisperings are in the dale,
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The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,

My face turns green and pale.
34 35
Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, Has brushed away.
And the dews of night arise;
Your spring and your day are wasted in play, Am not I
And your winter and night in disguise. A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
The Sick Rose. For I dance,

And drink, and sing,
O rose, thou art sick! Till some blind hand
The invisible worm, Shall brush my wing.
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm, If thought is life
And strength and breath,
Has found out thy bed And the want
Of crimson joy, Of thought is death;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy. Then am I
A happy fly.
If I live,
Or if I die.
The Fly.
Contents
Little Fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
36 37
The Angel. The Tiger.
I dreamt a dream! What can it mean? Tiger, tiger, burning bright

And that I was a maiden Queen In the forests of the night,
Guarded by an Angel mild: What immortal hand or eye
Witless woe was ne’er beguiled! Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
And I wept both night and day, In what distant deeps or skies
And he wiped my tears away; Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
And I wept both day and night, On what wings dare he aspire?
And hid from him my heart’s delight. What the hand dare seize the fire?
So he took his wings, and fled; And what shoulder and what art
Then the morn blushed rosy red. Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
I dried my tears, and armed my fears And, when thy heart began to beat,
With ten thousand shields and spears. What dread hand and what dread feet?
Soon my Angel came again; What the hammer? what the chain?
I was armed, he came in vain; In what furnace was thy brain?
For the time of youth was fled, What the anvil? what dread grasp
And grey hairs were on my head. Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,

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And watered heaven with their tears,

Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
38 39
Seeking after that sweet golden clime

Tiger, tiger, burning bright Where the traveller’s journey is done;
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye Where the Youth pined away with desire,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sunflower wishes to go!
My Pretty Rose Tree.
A flower was offered to me, The Lily.

Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said, ‘I’ve a pretty rose tree,’ The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
And I passed the sweet flower o’er. The humble sheep a threat’ning horn:
While the Lily white shall in love delight,
Then I went to my pretty rose tree, Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.
To tend her by day and by night;
But my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.
The Garden of Love.
I went to the Garden of Love,

Ah, Sunflower. And saw what I never had seen;
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A Chapel was built in the midst,

Ah, sunflower, weary of time, Where I used to play on the green.
Who countest the steps of the sun;
40 41
And the gates of this Chapel were shut, And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
And ‘Thou shalt not’ writ over the door; Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.
So I turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore. And God, like a father, rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as He,
And I saw it was filled with graves, Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
And tombstones where flowers should be; But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.
London.
The Little Vagabond. I wander through each chartered street,

Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold; A mark in every face I meet,
But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm. Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
Besides, I can tell where I am used well;
Such usage in heaven will never do well. In every cry of every man,
In every infant’s cry of fear,
But, if at the Church they would give us some ale, In every voice, in every ban,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale, The mind-forged manacles I hear:
We’d sing and we’d pray all the livelong day,
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray. How the chimney-sweeper’s cry
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Every blackening church appals,

Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing, And the hapless soldier’s sigh
And we’d be as happy as birds in the spring; Runs in blood down palace-walls.
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But most, through midnight streets I hear And the caterpillar and fly
How the youthful harlot’s curse Feed on the Mystery.
Blasts the new-born infant’s tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage hearse. And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat,
And the raven his nest has made
In its thickest shade.
The Human Abstract.
The gods of the earth and sea
Pity would be no more Sought through nature to find this tree,
If we did not make somebody poor, But their search was all in vain:
And Mercy no more could be There grows one in the human Brain.
If all were as happy as we.
And mutual fear brings Peace,

Till the selfish loves increase; Infant Sorrow.
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care. My mother groaned, my father wept:
Into the dangerous world I leapt,
He sits down with holy fears, Helpless, naked, piping loud,
And waters the ground with tears; Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
Then Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot. Struggling in my father’s hands,
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Striving against my swaddling bands,

Soon spreads the dismal shade Bound and weary, I thought best
Of Mystery over his head, To sulk upon my mother’s breast.
44 45
A Little Boy Lost.
A Poison Tree. ‘Nought loves another as itself,

Nor venerates another so,
I was angry with my friend: Nor is it possible to thought
I told my wrath, my wrath did end. A greater than itself to know.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow. ‘And, father, how can I love you
Or any of my brothers more?
And I watered it in fears I love you like the little bird
Night and morning with my tears, That picks up crumbs around the door.’
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles. The Priest sat by and heard the child;
In trembling zeal he seized his hair,
And it grew both day and night, He led him by his little coat,
Till it bore an apple bright, And all admired his priestly care.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine, - And standing on the altar high,
‘Lo, what a fiend is here!’ said he:
And into my garden stole ‘One who sets reason up for judge
When the night had veiled the pole; Of our most holy mystery.’
In the morning, glad, I see
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My foe outstretched beneath the tree. The weeping child could not be heard,
The weeping parents wept in vain:
They stripped him to his little shirt,
46 47
And bound him in an iron chain, Had just removed the curtains of the night.
And burned him in a holy place There, in rising day,

Where many had been burned before; On the grass they play;
The weeping parents wept in vain. Parents were afar,
Are such things done on Albion’s shore? Strangers came not near,
And the maiden soon forgot her fear.
Tired with kisses sweet,

A Little Girl Lost. They agree to meet
When the silent sleep
Children of the future age, Waves o’er heaven’s deep,
Reading this indignant page, And the weary tired wanderers weep.
Know that in a former time
Love, sweet love, was thought a crime. To her father white
Came the maiden bright;
In the age of gold, But his loving look,
Free from winter’s cold, Like the holy book,
Youth and maiden bright, All her tender limbs with terror shook.
To the holy light,
Naked in the sunny beams delight. Ona, pale and weak,
To thy father speak!
Once a youthful pair, O the trembling fear!
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Filled with softest care, O the dismal care

Met in garden bright That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair!’
Where the holy light
48 49
A Divine Image. As thy softest limbs I feel,

Smiles as of the morning steal
Cruelty has a human heart, O’er thy cheek, and o’er thy breast
And Jealousy a human face; Where thy little heart doth rest.
Terror the human form divine,
And Secrecy the human dress. O the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
The human dress is forged iron, When thy little heart doth wake,
The human form a fiery forge, Then the dreadful light shall break.
The human face a furnace sealed,
The human heart its hungry gorge.
The Schoolboy.
A Cradle Song. I love to rise in a summer morn,

When the birds sing on every tree;
Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, The distant huntsman winds his horn,
Dreaming in the joys of night; And the skylark sings with me:
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep O what sweet company!
Little sorrows sit and weep.
But to go to school in a summer morn, -
Sweet babe, in thy face O it drives all joy away!
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Soft desires I can trace, Under a cruel eye outworn,

Secret joys and secret smiles, The little ones spend the day
Little pretty infant wiles. In sighing and dismay.
50 51
Ah then at times I drooping sit, To Tirzah.

And spend many an anxious hour;
Nor in my book can I take delight, Whate’er is born of mortal birth
Nor sit in learning’s bower, Must be consumed with the earth,
Worn through with the dreary shower. To rise from generation free:
Then what have I to do with thee?
How can the bird that is born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing? The sexes sprung from shame and pride,
How can a child, when fears annoy, Blowed in the morn, in evening died;
But droop his tender wing, But mercy changed death into sleep;
And forget his youthful spring! The sexes rose to work and weep.
O father and mother if buds are nipped, Thou, mother of my mortal part,
And blossoms blown away; With cruelty didst mould my heart,
And if the tender plants are stripped And with false self-deceiving tears
Of their joy in the springing day, Didst blind my nostrils, eyes, and ears,
By sorrow and care’s dismay, -
Didst close my tongue in senseless clay,
How shall the summer arise in joy, And me to mortal life betray.
Or the summer fruits appear? The death of Jesus set me free:
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy, Then what have I to do with thee?
Or bless the mellowing year,
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When the blasts of winter appear?

52 53
The Voice of the Ancient Bard.
Youth of delight! come hither

And see the opening morn,
Image of Truth new-born.
Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason,
Dark disputes and artful teazing.
Folly is an endless maze;
Tangled roots perplex her ways;
How many have fallen there!
They stumble all night over bones of the dead;
And feel—they know not what but care;
And wish to lead others, when they should be led.
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William Blake - Songs of Innocence and Experience PDF

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Songs of Piping down the valleys wild,

Experience And he laughing said to me:

by William Blake ‘Pipe a song about a Lamb!’

‘Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;

public domain, this pdf edition is a copyrighted

In a book, that all may read.’ The Echoing Green.

The Shepherd. Old John, with white hair,

For they know when their shepherd is nigh.

The sun does descend, He is called by thy name,

The Lamb. The Little Black Boy.

‘Look on the rising sun: there God does live,

Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. The Blossom.

‘And we are put on earth a little space, Merry, merry sparrow!

There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,

Who in sorrow pale, through the lonely dale,

Laughing Song. Sweet Sleep, with soft down

When He was an infant small. And Peace the human dress.

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,

For Mercy has a human heart;

Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own.

In heaven’s high bower, But, if they rush dreadful,

New worlds to inherit. Day and night,

Sound the flute! Let me kiss

Nurse’s Song. What shall I call thee?

Troubled, wildered, and forlorn,

Over many a tangled spray,

‘O my children! do they cry, Can a father see his child

He doth give His joy to all:

He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,

O He gives to us His joy,

Hear the voice of the Bard,

Calling the lapsed soul,

That might control

Earth’s Answer. ‘Break this heavy chain,

‘Prisoned on watery shore,

The Clod and the Pebble. Is that trembling cry a song?

The Little Girl Lost.

Holy Thursday. In futurity

Babes reduced to misery,

And the desert wild Lyca shall not weep.

‘If her heart does ache, And upon her neck,

The fancied image strays,

Starved in desert wild.

And wondering behold The Chimney-Sweeper.

To this day they dwell

The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,

The Sick Rose. For I dance,

The Angel. The Tiger.

I dreamt a dream! What can it mean? Tiger, tiger, burning bright

When the stars threw down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears,

Seeking after that sweet golden clime

My Pretty Rose Tree.

A flower was offered to me, The Lily.

I went to the Garden of Love,

A Chapel was built in the midst,

The Little Vagabond. I wander through each chartered street,

Every blackening church appals,

And mutual fear brings Peace,