“One morn I missed him on the customed hill,

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God.

WILLIAM BLAKE

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
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?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

tree;

Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.

Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay,

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth to fortune and to fame unknown. Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.

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

When the star threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee?

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

From SONGS OF INNOCENCE
INTRODUCTION

PIPING down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,

And he laughing said to me:

"Pipe a song about a Lamb!"

So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again;" So I piped: he wept to hear.