And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD

1743-1825

LIFE

LIFE! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear

Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;

-Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

Say not Good-night-but in some brighter clime Bid me Good-morning.

WILLIAM BLAKE

1757-1828

THE LAND OF DREAMS

AWAKE, awake, my little boy!

Thou wast thy mother's only joy.

Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
Awake, thy Father does thee keep.

'O, what land is the Land of Dreams,

What are its mountains and what are its streams ?
O father, I saw my mother there,
Among the lilies by waters fair.

'Among the lambs clothed in white,

She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight;

I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn,

O, when shall I again return?'

Dear child, I also by pleasant streams

Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams, But though calm and warm the waters wide,

I could not get to the other side.

'Father, O Father! what do we here,

In this land of unbelief and fear?

The Land of Dreams is better far

Above the light of the morning star.'

THE PIPER

PIPING down the valleys wild,

Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,

And he laughing said to me :—

'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,
Sing thy songs of happy cheer.'
So I sang the same again,

While he wept with joy to hear.

'Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read':
So he vanished from my sight,

And I plucked a hollow reed;

And I made a rural pen,

And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

HOLY THURSDAY

'TWAS on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue,

and green;

Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,

Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!

Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their

own;

The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of

lambs,

Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent

hands,

Now, like a mighty wind, they raise to heaven the voice

of song,

Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven

among;

Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the

poor.

Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your

door.

THE TIGER

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

TO THE MUSES

WHETHER on Ida's shady brow,

Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the sun, that now
From ancient melody have ceased;

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,
Wandering in many a coral grove,—
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoyed in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.

LOVE'S SECRET

NEVER seek to tell thy love,

Love that never told can be ;
For the gentle wind doth move
Silently, invisibly.