Truly, My Satan, thou art but a Dunce, And dost not know the Garment from the Man. Every Harlot was a Virgin once, Nor can'st thou ever change Kate into Nan.
For where'er the sun does shine, And where'er the rain does fall, Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appall.
His little throat labours with inspiration, every feather On throat and breast and wings vibrates with the effluence Divine.
we Reap in joy the fruit Which we in bitter tears did sow.
And if the Babe is born a Boy He's given to a Woman Old, Who nails him down upon a rock Catches his shrieks in cups of gold.
And was Jerusalem builded here, Among these dark Satanic Mills?
The lark sitting upon his earthy bed, just as the morn Appears, listens silent, then springing from the waving Corn-field, loud He leads the Choir of Day—
Bring me my Bow of burning gold: Bring me my Arrows of desire: Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold! Bring me my Chariot of fire! I will not cease from Mental Fight, Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand, Till we have built Jerusalem In England's green & pleasant Land.
Christ's crucifix shall be made an excuse for executing criminals.
He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.