Part 7

Little Fly, Thy summer’s play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away.

Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me?

For I dance, And drink, and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life And strength and breath, And the want Of thought is death;

Then am I A happy fly. If I live, Or if I die.

THE ANGEL

I dreamt a dream! What can it mean? And that I was a maiden Queen Guarded by an Angel mild: Witless woe was ne’er beguiled!

And I wept both night and day, And he wiped my tears away; And I wept both day and night, And hid from him my heart’s delight.

So he took his wings, and fled; Then the morn blushed rosy red. I dried my tears, and armed my fears With ten thousand shields and spears.

Soon my Angel came again; I was armed, he came in vain; For the time of youth was fled, And grey hairs were on my head.

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?

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

When the stars 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?

MY PRETTY ROSE TREE

A flower was offered to me, Such a flower as May never bore; But I said, ‘I’ve a pretty rose tree,’ And I passed the sweet flower o’er.

Then I went to my pretty rose tree, To tend her by day and by night; But my rose turned away with jealousy, And her thorns were my only delight.

AH, SUNFLOWER

Ah, sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun; Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller’s journey is done;

Where the Youth pined away with desire, And the pale virgin shrouded in snow, Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my Sunflower wishes to go!

THE LILY

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn, The humble sheep a threat’ning horn: While the Lily white shall in love delight, Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

THE GARDEN OF LOVE

I went to the Garden of Love, And saw what I never had seen; A Chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut, And ‘Thou shalt not’ writ over the door; So I turned to the Garden of Love That so many sweet flowers bore.