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By William Blake
Tyger Tyger, burning bright, Did he who made the Lamb make
thee?
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
In what distant deeps or skies,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?