London

BY WILLIAM BLAKE

I wander thro' each charter'd street, Io vago attraverso le strade mappate,

Near where the charter'd Thames does flow. commercialmente,
And mark in every face I meet Vicino a dove scorre il Tamigi monopolizzato,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe. E noto in ogni faccia che incontro
Segni di debolezza, segni di dolore.

In every cry of every Man, In ogni pianto di ogni uomo,

In every Infants cry of fear, In ogni pianto infantile di paura,
In every voice: in every ban, In ogni voce: in ogni divieto,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear Sento le manette forgiate dalla mente.

Come il pianto dello spazzacamino

How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Atterrisce ogni chiesa annerita,
Every blackning Church appalls,
E il sospiro del soldato sfortunato
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Scorre in sangue lungo i muri del palazzo.
Runs in blood down Palace walls

Ma soprattutto attraverso le strade a mezzanotte

But most thro' midnight streets I hear
sento
How the youthful Harlots curse
Come la maledizione della giovane prostituta
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
Distrugge la lacrima dell’infante neonato,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
E rovina con pestilenze il carro funebre del
matrimonio.

The Lamb
BY WILLIAM BLAKE
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o'er 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 I'll 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.
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​ Agnellino, chi ti ha creato?
​ Sai chi ti ha creato?
​ Ti diede la vita, e ti disse di nutrirti
​ Dal ruscello e sopra il prato;
​ Ti diede un vestito di delizia,
​ Il più morbido vestito, di lana, chiaro;
​ Ti diede una così tenera voce,
​ da fare gioire tutte le valli!
​ Agnellino, chi ti ha creato?
​ Sai chi ti ha creato?
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​ Agnellino, te lo dirò,
​ Agnellino, te lo dirò:
​ Egli è chiamato col tuo nome,
​ Poiché Egli Si chiama Agnello.
​ Egli è mite, ed Egli è docile;
​ Divenne un piccolo bambino.
​ Io un bambino, e tu un agnello,
​ Siamo chiamati col Suo nome.
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​ Agnellino, Dio ti benedica!
​ Agnellino, Dio ti benedica!
 The Tyger
BY WILLIAM BLAKE
​ Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright
​ In the forests of the night:
​ What immortal hand or eye
​ Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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​ 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?
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​ 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?
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​ What the hammer? What the chain?
​ In what furnace was thy brain?
​ What the anvil? What dread grasp
​ Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
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​ When the stars threw down their spears,
​ And water’d heaven with their tears:
​ Did He smile His work to see?
​ Did He who made the Lamb make thee?
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​ Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright
​ In the forests of the night:
​ What immortal hand or eye
​ Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Tigre! Tigre! Ardi brillante
Nelle foreste della notte,
Quale mano o occhio immortale
Diede forma alla tua spaventosa simmetria?
In quali distanti abissi o cieli
Accese il fuoco dei tuoi occhi?
Sopra quali ali osa slanciarsi?
Quale mano osa afferrare il fuoco?
Quale spalla, quale arte
Poté torcerti i tendini del cuore?
E quando il tuo cuore iniziò a battere,
Quale tremenda mano? Quali tremendi piedi?
Quale martello e quale catena?
In quale fornace fu il tuo cervello?
E quale incudine?
Quale terribile presa osò afferrare i terrori letali?
Quando le stelle gettarono le loro lance
E inondarono il cielo con le proprie lacrime
Sorrise Dio osservando il proprio lavoro?
Colui che l’Agnello creò, creò anche te?
Tigre! Tigre! Ardi brillante
Nelle foreste della notte,
Quale mano o occhio immortale
Osò dare forma alla tua spaventosa simmetria
The Chimney The Chimney
Sweeper: When my Sweeper: A little
mother died I was black thing among
very young the snow
BY WILLIAM BLAKE BY WILLIAM BLAKE

When my mother died I was very young, A little black thing among the snow,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue Crying "weep! 'weep!" in notes of woe!
Could scarcely cry " 'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!" "Where are thy father and mother? say?"
So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep. "They are both gone up to the church to pray.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved, 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 locked up in coffins of black;
Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smil'd among the winter's snow,
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.
And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury,
And are gone to praise God and his Priest and
King,
Who make up a heaven of our misery."

And by came an Angel who had a bright key,

And he opened 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 he'd be a good boy,
He'd 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.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy &
warm;
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
The Solitary Reaper
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
Daffodils
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed'and gazed'but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils
The Rime of the
Ancient Mariner 1798
PLOT AND SETTING
In the first part the Ancient Mariner stops a
wedding guest to tell him his dreadful tale. He
narrates how he and his fellow mariners reached
the equator and the polar region after a violent
storm. After several days an albatross appeared
through the fog and was killed by the Mariner. The
shooting of a bird may seem a matter of little
moment, but Coleridge makes it significant in two
ways.
First of all, he does not say why the Mariner kills
the Albatross and what matters is precisely the
uncertainty of the Mariner’s motives, which
suggests the essential irrationality of the crime.
Secondly, this action is against nature and breaks a
secret law of life.
In the second part the Mariner begins to suffer
punishment for what he has done, and Coleridge
transfers the corruption and the helplessness which
are the common attributes of guilt to the physical
world. The world which faces the Mariner after his
crime is dead and terrible; the ship has ceased to
move and the sailors are tortured by first, and the
only moving things are slimy creatures in the sea at
night.
The third part shows how the Mariner’s guilt soul
became conscious of what he has done and of his
isolation in the world. A phantom ship comes
closer to the crew and is identified as a skeleton
ship. On board death and Life-in-Death cast dice;
the former wins the Mariner’s fellows, who all die,
and the latter wins the Mariners life. In the fourth
part this sense of solitude is stressed. Then the
Mariner, unaware, blesses the water snakes and
begins to re-establish a relationship with the world
of nature. The fifth part continues the process of the
soul’s revival. The ship begins to move and
celestial spirits stand by the corpses of the dead
mariners. In the sixth part the process of
purification seems to be impeded. In the last
stanzas of the seventh part the Mariner gains the
wedding guest’s sympathy.

Coleridge does not tell us the end of the story, but

lets the reader suppose that the Mariner’s sense of
guilt will end only with his death.

Ode to the West
Wind
BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
I
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!
II
Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's
commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and
Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine aëry surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh hear!
III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear!
IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seem'd a vision; I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?