William Blake (विलियम ब्लेक)

I wandered through each chartered street,Near where the chartered Thames does flow.

A mark in every face I meet,Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,In every infant's cry of fear.

In every voice, in every ban,The mind-forged manacles I hear.

How the chimney-sweeper's cry,Every blackening church appalls.

And the hapless soldier's sigh,Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear,How the youthful harlot's curse.

Blasts the new-born infant's tear,And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.

Pity would be no more,If we did not make somebody poor.

And Mercy no more could be,If all were as happy as we.

And mutual fear brings Peace,Till the selfish loves increase.

Then Cruelty knits a snare,And spreads his baits with care.

He sits down with his holy fears,And waters the ground with tears.

Then Humility takes its root,Underneath his foot.

Soon spreads the dismal shade,Of Mystery over his head.

And the caterpillar and fly,Feed on the Mystery.

And it bears the fruit of Deceit,Ruddy and sweet to eat.

And the raven his nest has made,In its thickest shade.

The gods of the earth and sea,Sought through nature to find this tree.

But their search was all in vain,There grows one in the human Brain.

I was angry with my friend,I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe,I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,Night and 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 veiled the pole.

In the morning, glad, I see,My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?,Or wilt thou go ask the Mole.

Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?,Or Love in a golden bowl?.

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.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,Sing thy songs of happy cheer!".

So I sang the same again,While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper, sit thee down and write,In a book, that all may read.".

So he vanish'd from my sight,And I pluck'd a hollow reed.

And I made a rural pen,And I stain'd the water clear.

And I wrote my happy songs,Every child may joy to hear.

The sun does arise,And make happy the skies.

The merry bells ring,To welcome the Spring.

The skylark and thrush,The birds of the bush.

Sing louder around,To the bells' cheerful sound.

While our sports shall be seen,On the echoing Green.

Old John, with white hair,Does laugh away care.

Sitting under the oak,Among the old folk.

They laugh at our play,And soon they all say.

"Such, such were the joys,When we all--girls and boys--.

In our youth-time were seen,On the echoing Green.".

Till the little ones, weary,No more can be merry.

The sun does descend,And our sports have an end.

Round the laps of their mothers,Many sisters and brothers.

Like birds in their nest,Are ready for rest.

And sport no more seen,On the darkening green.

Little Lamb, who made thee,Dost thou know who made thee.

Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,By the stream and o'er the mead.

Gave thee clothing of delight,Softest clothing, woolly, bright.

Gave thee such a tender voice,Making all the vales rejoice?.

Little Lamb, who made thee?,Dost thou know who made thee?.

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,Little Lamb, I'll tell thee.

He is called by thy name,For He calls Himself a Lamb.

He is meek, and He is mild,He became a little child.

I a child, and thou a lamb,We are called by His name.

Little Lamb, God bless thee!,Little Lamb, God bless thee!.

My mother bore me in the southern wild,And I am black, but oh my soul is white!.

White as an angel is the English child,But I am black, as if bereaved 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, pointed 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 beasts and men receive,Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

"And we are put on earth a little space,That we may learn to bear the beams of love.

And these black bodies and this sunburnt face,Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

"For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice.

Saying, 'Come out from the grove, my love and care,And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice',".

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me,And thus I say to little English boy.

When I from black and he from white cloud free,And round the tent of God like lambs we joy.

I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear,To lean in joy upon our Father's knee.

And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,And be like him, and he will then love me.

Merry, merry sparrow!,Under leaves so green.

A happy blossom,Sees you, swift as arrow.

Seek your cradle narrow,Near my bosom.

Pretty, pretty robin!,Under leaves so green.

A happy blossom,Hears you sobbing, sobbing.

Pretty, pretty robin,Near my bosom.

When my mother died I was very young,And my father sold me while yet my tongue.

Could scarcely cry "Weep! weep! weep! weep!",So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said.

"Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare,You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.".

And so he was quiet, and that very night,As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!--.

That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

And by came an angel, who had a bright key,And he opened the coffins, and let them all free.

Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run,And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.

And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,And got with our bags and our brushes to work.

Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm,So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

"Father, father, where are you going?,Oh do not walk so fast!.

Speak, father, speak to your little boy,Or else I shall be lost.".

The night was dark, no father was there,The child was wet with dew.

The mire was deep, and the child did weep,And away the vapour flew.