The poems of William Blake [ed. by R.H. Shepherd].

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161. oldal - 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 and pleasant land.
146. oldal - Shudders hell thro' all its regions. A dog starv'd at his master's gate Predicts the ruin of the state. A horse misused upon the road Calls to heaven for human blood. Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear. A skylark wounded in the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing. The game-cock dipt and arm'd for fight Does the rising sun affright.
91. oldal - 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 sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
87. oldal - 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 :
115. oldal - 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...
116. oldal - Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?
105. oldal - No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small bird's grief and care, Hear the woes that infants...
89. oldal - LITTLE lamb, who made thee ? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life and bid thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead ; Gave thee clothing of delight, 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 lamb, I'll tell thee, Little lamb, I'll tell thee. He is called...
145. oldal - To see a World in a grain of sand, And a Heaven in a wild flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, And Eternity in an hour. A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all Heaven in a rage.
112. oldal - The Sick Rose O rose, thou art sick; The invisible worm That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

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