William Blake- Songs of Innocence Introduction 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 chear, Piper pipe that song again So I piped, he wept to hear. Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe Sing thy songs of happy chear, So I sung 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 vanishd from my sight, And I pluckd a hollow reed. And I made a rural pen, And I staind the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs, Every child may joy to hear The Lamb Little Lamb who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Gave thee life & bid thee feed, By the stream & oer the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing wooly bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice: Little Lamb who made thee Dost thou know who made thee

Little Lamb I'll tell thee, Little Lamb Ill tell thee; He is called by thy name, For he calls himself a Lamb: He is meek & he is mild, He became a little child: I a child & thou a lamb, We are called by his name. Little Lamb God bless thee, Little Lamb God bless thee. The Little Black Boy. My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O! my soul is white, White as an angel is the English child: But I am black as if bereavd of light. My mother taught me underneath a tree And sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And pointing to the east began to say. Look on the rising sun: there God does live And gives his light, and gives his heat away. And flowers and trees and beasts and men recieve Comfort in morning joy in the noon day. And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love. And these black bodies and this sun-burnt face Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove. ForFor when our souls have learnd the heat to bear The cloud will vanish we shall hear his voice, Saying: come out from the grove my love & care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice. Thus did my mother say and kissed me. And thus I say to little English boy.

When I from black and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy: Ill shade him from the heat till he can bear, To lean in joy upon our fathers knee. And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him and he will then love me. The Chimney Sweeper When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue, Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep. So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep. Theres little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head That curld like a lambs back, was shavd, so I said, Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head's bare, You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair. And so he was quiet, & that very night, As Tom was a sleeping he had such a sight, That thousands of sweepers Dick, Joe, Ned & Jack Were all of them lockd up in coffins of black, And by came an Angel who had a bright key, And he opend the coffins & set them all free. Then down a green plain leaping laughing they run And wash in a river and shine in the Sun. Then naked & white, all their bags left behind, They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind. And the Angel told Tom, if hed be a good boy, Hed have God for his father & never want joy. And so Tom awoke and we rose in the dark And got with our bags & our brushes to work. Tho the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm. So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

HOLY THURSDAY Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean The children walking two & two in red & blue & green Grey headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow O what a multitude they seemd 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 & 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

William Blake- Songs of Experience

Introduction. Hear the voice of the Bard! Who Present, Past, & Future sees Whose ears have heard, The Holy Word, That walkd among the ancient trees. Calling the lapsed Soul And weeping in the evening dew: That might controll The starry pole: And fallen fallen light renew! O Earth O Earth return! Arise from out the dewy grass; Night is worn, And the morn Rises from the slumberous mass. Turn away no more: Why wilt thou turn away The starry floor The watry shore Is givn thee till the break of day. EARTH'S Answer. Earth raisd up her head, From the darkness dread & drear, Her light fled: Stony dread! And her locks coverd with grey despair. Prisond on watry shore Starry Jealousy does keep my den Cold and hoar Weeping oer I hear the Father of the ancient men

Selfish father of men Cruel jealous selfish fear Can delight Chaind in night The virgins of youth and morning bear. Does spring hide its joy When buds and blossoms grow? Does the sower? Sow by night? Or the plowman in darkness plow? Break this heavy chain, That does freeze my bones around Selfish! vain! Eternal bane! That free Love with bondage bound The Tyger Tyger Tyger, 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 sieze the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & 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 waterd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry The SICK ROSE O Rose thou art sick. The invisible worm, That flies in the night In the howling storm: Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy: And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. LONDON I wander thro each charterd street, Near where the charterd Thames does flow And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infants cry of fear, In every voice; in every ban, The mind-forgd manacles I hear How the Chimney-sweepers cry Every blackning Church appalls, And the hapless Soldiers sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls But most thro midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse

Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse The Chimney Sweeper A little black thing among the snow: Crying weep, weep, in notes of woe! Where are thy father & mother? say? They are both gone up to the church to pray. Because I was happy upon the heath, And smild among the winters snow: They clothed me in the clothes of death, And taught me to sing the notes of woe. And because I am happy, & dance & sing, They think they have done me no injury: And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King Who make up a heaven of our misery.