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click to see in depth examination
of Blake's art and literature Innocence and Experience
The Lamb
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.
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 bereav'd 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 receive
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.
For when our souls have learn'd 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:
I’ll 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.
t10
So your Chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep.
There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his
head
That curl'd like a lambs back, was shav'd, 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 open'd 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.
Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm,
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
The SICK ROSE
t51
O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
t52
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
t53
Does thy life destroy.
t54
The Tyger.
t63
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
t64
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
t65
In what distant deeps or skies.
t66
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
t67
On what wings dare he aspire?
t68
What the hand, dare seize 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?
t69
What the hammer? what the chain,
t70
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
t71
When the stars threw down their spears
t72
And water'd 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:
t73
What immortal hand or eye,
t74
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
t75
The GARDEN of LOVE
t83
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
t84
A Chapel was built in the midst,
t85
Where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
t86
And Thou shalt not. writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,
t87
That so many sweet flowers bore.
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.
LONDON
t94
I wander thro' each charter'd street,
t95
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow.
And mark in every face I meet
t96
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
t97
In every voice: in every ban,
t98
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear
t99
How the Chimney-sweepers cry
t100
Every blackning Church appalls,
t101
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls
But most thro' midnight streets I hear
t102
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
A POISON TREE.
t109
I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night.
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.
And into my garden stole,
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see;
My foe outstretched beneath the tree
Proverbs of Hell
Drive your cart and your plow over the bones
of the dead.
The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by Incapacity.
He who desires but acts not breeds pestilence.
He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.
The busy bee has no time for sorrow.
All wholesome food is caught without a net or a trap.
No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.
The most sublime act is to set another before you.
If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.
Shame is Pride's cloak.
Prisons are built with stones of Law, Brothels with
bricks of Religion.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
Excess of sorrow laughs, Excess of joy weeps.
The fox condemns the trap, not himself.
Joys impregnate, Sorrows bring forth.
What is now proved was once only imagin'd.
The eagle never lost so much time, as when he submitted to learn
of the crow.
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