The Poetical Works of William Blake, Volumen1

Chatto & Windus, 1906
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Página 85 - 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?
Página 89 - I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I water'd it in fears, Night & morning with my tears; And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright; And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine, And into my garden stole When the night had...
Página 142 - Mock on' Mock on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau; Mock on, mock on: 'tis all in vain! You throw the sand against the wind, And the wind blows it back again. And every sand becomes a gem, Reflected in the beams divine. Blown back they blind the mocking eye, But still in Israel's paths they shine.
Página 246 - Then I asked: does a firm perswasion that a thing is so, make it so?
Página 65 - My mother bore me in the southern wild, ,' And I am black, but O! my soul is white; White as an angel is the English child: ' But I am black as if bereav'd of light My mother taught me underneath a tree And sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And pointing to the east began to say. Look on the rising sun: there God does live And gives his light, and gives his heat away. And flowers and trees and...
Página 84 - The SICK ROSE O Rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy: And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.
Página 74 - No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep ; Besides in the sky the little birds fly, And the hills are all cover'd with sheep. Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed.
Página 79 - So sung a little Clod of Clay Trodden with the cattle's feet, But a Pebble of the brook Warbled out these metres meet: " Love seeketh only Self to please, To bind another to Its delight, Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.
Página 70 - Sweet babe, in thy face Holy image I can trace ; Sweet babe, once like thee Thy Maker lay, and wept for me : Wept for me, for thee, for all, When He was an infant small. Thou His image ever see, Heavenly face that smiles on thee ! Smiles on thee, on me, on all, Who became an infant small ; Infant smiles are his own smiles ; Heaven and earth to peace beguiles.
Página 8 - Till I the prince of love beheld, Who in the sunny beams did glide! He showed me lilies for my hair, And blushing roses for my brow; He led me through his gardens fair, Where all his golden pleasures grow.

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