WHO is this, that with unerring step dares tempt the wilds, where only Nature’s foot hath trod? ’Tis Contemplation, daughter of the grey Morning! Majestical she steppeth, and with her p...
Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land, Babes reduced to misery, Fed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song?
Memory, hither come, And tune your merry notes; And, while upon the wind Your music floats, I’ll pore upon the stream
Sweet dreams, form a shade O’er my lovely infant’s head! Sweet dreams of pleasant streams By happy, silent, moony beams! Sweet Sleep, with soft down
My silks and fine array, My smiles and languish’d air, By love are driv’n away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave:
I saw a chapel all of gold That none did dare to enter in, And many weeping stood without, Weeping, mourning, worshipping. I saw a serpent rise between
I will sing you a song of Los, th… He sung it to four harps, at the t… In heart-formèd Africa. Urizen faded! Ariston shudder’d! And thus the Song began:—
All the night in woe Lyca’s parents go Over valleys deep, While the deserts weep. Tired and woe-begone,
And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England’s mountains gre… And was the holy Lamb of God On England’s pleasant pastures se… And did the Countenance Divine
“I have no name: I am but two days old.” What shall I call thee? “I happy am, Joy is my name.”
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!”
GOLDEN APOLLO, that thro’ he… Scatter’st the rays of light, and… In lucent words my darkling verses… And wash my earthy mind in thy cle… That wisdom may descend in fairy d…
WHEN the green woods laugh with… And the dimpling stream runs laugh… When the air does laugh with our m… And the green hill laughs with the… When the meadows laugh with lively…
`I die, I die!' the Mother said, `My children die for lack of bread… What more has the merciless tyrant… The Monk sat down on the stony be… The blood red ran from the Grey M…
Little fly, Thy summer’s play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away. Am not I