Clod and the Pebble, The

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"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell's despair."

So sung a little clod of clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet;
But a pebble of the brook
Warbled out these meters 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."

More poems by William Blake

Once a dream did weave a shade / O'er my angel-guarded bed,

"Nought loves another as itself, / Nor venerates another so,

"I die, I die!" the Mother said, / "My children die for lack of bread.

Awake, awake, my little boy! / Thou wast thy mother's only joy;