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William Blake
1757-1827

Blake was a poet, a painter and an engraver. Chambers writes that Blake's poetry "include some of the purest lyrics in the English language and express his ardent belief in the freedom of the imagination and his hatred of rationalism and materialism."

Never seek pain to tell thy love

Never seek pain to tell thy love
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.
I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart.
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.
Ah, she doth depart!
Soon as she was gone from me,
A traveller came by,
Silently, invisibly;
He took her with a sigh.
O, was no deny.

Eternity

He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sun rise.

1     How sweet I roam'd from field to field,
2         And tasted all the summer's pride,
3     'Till I the prince of love beheld,
4         Who in the sunny beams did glide!

5     He shew'd me lilies for my hair,
6         And blushing roses for my brow;
7     He led me through his gardens fair,
8         Where all his golden pleasures grow.

9     With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
10       And Ph?bus fir'd my vocal rage;
11   He caught me in his silken net,
12       And shut me in his golden cage.

13   He loves to sit and hear me sing,
14       Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
15   Then stretches out my golden wing,
16       And mocks my loss of liberty.

There is a Smile of Love
And there is a Smile of Deceit.
And there is a Smile of Smiles
In which these two Smiles meet.

And there is a Frown of Hate
And there is a Frown of Disdain.
And there is a Frown of Frowns
Which you strive to forget in vain.

For it sticks in the Heart deep Core
And it sticks in the deep Back bone
And no Smile that ever was smild
But only one Smile alone.

That betwixt the Cradle and Grave
It only once Smile can be
But when it once is smild
There's an end to all Misery.

To the Accuser Who is the God of the World

Truly, my Satan, thou art but a Dunce
And dost not know the Garment from the Man.
Every Harlot was a Virgin once
Nor cans't you ever change Kate into Nan.

Tho' thou art Worship'd by the Names Divine
Of Jesus and Jehovah, thou art still
The Son of Mourn in Weary Nights' decline,
The lost Traveller's Dream under the Hill.

Leave, O leave me to my sorrow

Leave, O leave me to my sorrow;
Here I’ll sit and fade away,
Till I’m nothing but a spirit,
And I lose this form of clay.
Then if chance along this forest
Any waalk in pathless way,
Thro’ the gloom he’ll see my shadow
Here my voice upon the breeze.

2000 Elena and Yacov Feldman