1 min read
Слушать(AI)The Little Boy Found
The little boy lost in the lonely fen, Led by the wandering light,
Began to cry, but God, ever nigh, Appeared like his father, in white. He kissed the child, and by the hand led, And to his mother brought,
Who in sorrow pale, through the lonely dale, The little boy weeping sought.
William Blake
William Blake (28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827) was an English poet, painter, and printmaker. Largely unrecognised during his lifetime, Blake
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
The Sick Rose
O Rose, thou art sick The invisible That flies in the night, In the howling storm,
Night
The sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine
Eternity
He who binds to himself a Does the winged life destroy; But he who kisses the joy as it Lives in eternity's sun rise
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,...
