To Spring
O thou with dewy locks, who lookest
Thro' the clear windows of the morning,
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach,
O Spring!
The hills tell each other, and the
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth,
And let thy holy feet visit our clime.
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our
Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy
Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers;
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and
Thy golden crown upon her languished head,
Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee.
William Blake
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The Garden of Love
I laid me down upon a bank, Where Love lay sleeping; I heard among the rushes dank Weeping, weeping Then I went to the heath and the wild, To the thistles and thorns of the waste; And they told me how they were beguiled, Driven out,...
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;
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My mother groaned, my father wept, Into the dangerous world I leapt; Helpless, naked, piping loud, Like a fiend hid in a cloud
Earths Answer
Earth raised up her head From the darkness dread and drear, Her light fled, Stony, dread, And her locks covered with grey despair