William Blake

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.

William Blake ( 1794 )

A Question Answered


What is it men in women do require?
The lineaments of Gratified Desire.
What is it women do in men require?
The lineaments of Gratified Desire.

William Blake ( 1863 )

The Little Boy Lost


"Father, father, where are you going?
O do not walk so fast.
Speak father, speak to your little boy
Or else I shall be lost."


The night was dark, no father was there,
The child was wet with dew.
The mire was deep & the child did weep,
And away the vapor flew."

William Blake ( 1789 )

bookmark.

Since this was chosen by Columbia University Press as the most popular & loved poem in the English language, I thought I ought to add it to the Blake topic.

William Blake. 1757-1827

The Tiger

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 5
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 10
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp 15
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee? 20

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Thanks for that info, Piffka.

Of course. Happy to! You know I'm a fool for poetry...

Me too!
Zippy doo.

So let's pull out some more Blake for the weekend and look at it!

I have two favorite Blake poems.

AH! SUNFLOWER!

Ah! Sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun,
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveler's journey is done;
Where the youth pined away with desire
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my sunflower wishes to go!


HOW SWEET I ROAMED FROM FIELD TO FIELD

How sweet I roamed from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride,
'Til I the prince of love beheld,
Who in the sunny beams did glide!

He shew'd me lillies for my hair,
And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his garden fair
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage;
He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty.

Thanks Edgar. Those are amazing poems, I'm so glad you brought them here. Sunflowers is one of those in the Columbia anthology, but How Sweet I Roamed is not. Odd, that, since I think I like it more. Maybe the cage at the end makes it less loved?

[Had to look up Phoebus, since I was thinking it was a moon of Mars. It is another name for Apollo, of course, and from him, the Sun.]

I offer another poem from the Anthology...

AND DID THOSE FEET IN ANCIENT TIME

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?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

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.
from Milton......

...........

Whew. I hope I got all those capitalizations right.

It says in the notes that "Blake's words are very likely the most inspiriting ever written by an Englishman for an Englishman." Even though I'm neither English nor man, I still like it.

If you read this poem aloud, you'll especially see the precision in the phrasing... England's Mountains, Countenance Divine, O Clouds Unfold.

I believe I read that Blake was 14 years old when he composed How Sweet ...

Amazing. A young genius. Well, his head didn't need to be full of computerese, video games and television personalities.

It does have a certain naivete and a relishing on the thought of kind of cruelty. My first thought when I read it was of a young boy catching a bug!

No Hip-Hop either!

More Blake for this coming weekend!

I've had that stanza written on the first page of every journal I think I've ever kept. It's nice to show the rest of of the English speaking world shares my enthusiasm.

Hello Seize! Just that one stanza? What sorts of journals??? So, do you have any other Blake poetry to share?

Here's something happy:

LAUGHING SONG

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

When the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene;
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing 'Ha ha he!'

When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread:
Come live, and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of 'Ha ha he!'

The Garden of Love
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had see:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And, "Thou shalt not" writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,
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.


William Blake
The Garden Of Love
1794

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.

The Sick Rose
William Blake
1794