Whether in heaven ye wander fair, Where the melodious winds have birth; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea How have you left the ancient love William Blake. 309 A SONG OF SINGING PIPING down the valleys wild, And he laughing said to me : 'Pipe a song about a Lamb!' So I piped: he wept to hear. 'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ; Sing thy songs of happy cheer!' While he wept with joy to hear. 'Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read.' And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, William Blake. 310 THE SICK ROSE O ROSE, thou art sick! The invisible worm, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. 311 THE ANGEL William Blake. I DREAMT a dream! What can it mean? And I wept both night and day, So he took his wings, and fled. Soon my Angel came again ; And grey hairs were on my head. William Blake. 312 THE TIGER TIGER, tiger, burning bright S In what distant deeps or skies And what shoulder and what art What dread hand and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? When the stars threw down their spears, Did he who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 313 THE SUNFLOWER William Blake. AH! Sunflower, weary of time, Where the traveller's journey is done; Where the Youth pined away with desire, Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my Sunflower wishes to go! 314 CRADLE SONG William Blake. SLEEP, sleep, beauty bright, Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep. Sweet babe, in thy face As thy softest limbs I feel, O, the cunning wiles that creep 315 OF A' THE AIRTS William Blake. OF a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There wild woods grow, and rivers row, But day and night my fancy's flight I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair. I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air. There's not a bonie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. Robert Burns. We are na fou, we're no that fou, |