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Слушать(AI)Silent Silent Night
Silent, silent night,
Quench the holy
Of thy torches bright;
For possessed of
Thousand spirits
That sweet joys betray.
Why should joys be
Used with deceit,
Nor with sorrows meet?
But an honest
Does itself
For a harlot coy.
William Blake
William Blake (28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827) was an English poet, painter, and printmaker. Largely unrecognised during his lifetime, Blake
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To the Evening Star
Thou fair-haired angel of the evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant Put on, and smile upon our evening bed
To Autum
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and With the blood of the grape, pass not, but Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
The Little Boy Lost
Father, father, where are you going Oh do not walk so fast Speak, father, speak to you little boy, Or else I shall be lost The night was dark, no father was there, The child was wet with dew;
A Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow.
