William Blake Poems

Nought loves another as itself,
Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to thought
A greater than itself to know.
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Prepare, prepare the iron helm of war,
Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb;
Th' Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands,
And casts them out upon the darken'd earth!
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Sweet dreams, form a shade
O'er my lovely infant's head!
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams
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MY Spectre around me night and day
Like a wild beast guards my way;
My Emanation far within
Weeps incessantly for my sin.
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Ah Sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller's journey is done;
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And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
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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.
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He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy;
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A Robin Redbreast in a cage,
Puts all Heaven in a rage.

A skylark wounded on the wing
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A flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said 'I've a pretty rose tree,'
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