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Good poems and the stil is very beautiful <3 Just a very good book (:
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A lovely book of poems -- Blake is a real genius when it comes to expressing sometimes the simplest things but in the most beautiful way...
angel appear arise arms babe beauty becomes bind birds Blake blossoms bore born bright called child church Cloth cloud cold dare dark death deep delight devil dread dream earth edition Engraved Title eyes face father fear feet fill'd fire flowers Frontispiece frowning garden GIRL give gold golden gone grave green hair hand happy head hear heard heart heaven holy human infant John lamb land laugh light lion LITTLE BOY live LOST Lyca maiden Mary mild morning mother never night o'er pale peace pity play pleasant poems poor Portrait printed rise rose round shine sigh sing sleep smiles song Songs of Innocence Soon sorrow soul spring summer's sweet tears thee thou thought tigers Till told tree trembling uncut voice vols WANDER weep wept wild wing youth
Page 6 - I'll tell thee: He is called by thy name, For He calls Himself a Lamb. He is meek, and He is mild; He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Page 63 - I wander thro' each charter'd street Near where the charter'd Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear: How the Chimney-sweeper's cry Every black'ning Church appalls, And the hapless Soldier's sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls; But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlot's curse Blasts the new born Infant's tear.
Page 1 - 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 :
Page 48 - I went to the Garden of Love, And saw what I never had seen: A chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green. And the gates of this chapel were shut, And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door; So I turned to the Garden of Love, That so many sweet flowers bore.
Page 5 - Softest clothing, woolly, bright ; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee ? Dost thou know who made thee ? Little...
Page 51 - 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?
Page 52 - Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Page 18 - 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.