William Blake

Awake, awake, my little boy
Thou wast thy mother's only joy;
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep
Awake

My mother groaned, my father wept,
Into the dangerous world I leapt;
Helpless, naked, piping loud,
Like a fiend hid in a cloud

I love to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the sky-lark sings with me

I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow.
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

Pity would be no
If we did not make somebody Poor;
And Mercy no more could
If all were as happy as we

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Silent, silent night,
Quench the holy
Of thy torches bright;
For possessed of

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,

As I wandered the forest,
The green leaves among,
I heard a Wild
Singing a song

Sound the flute
Now it's mute
Bird's delight,      Day and night,      Nightingale,      In the dale,      Lark in sky,—      Merrily,
Merrily merrily, to welcome in the year

The Maiden caught me in the wild,
Where I was dancing merrily;
She put me into her Cabinet,
And lock'd me up with a golden key

The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies;
The merry bells
To welcome the spring;