Angel, The
I dreamt a dream! What can it mean? / And that I was a maiden Queen
Fly, The
❦
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.
//
More poems by William Blake
EARTH'S ANSWER
Earth raised up her head / From the darkness dread and drear,
French Revolution, The
84 Thee the ancientest peer, Duke of Burgundy, rose from the monarch's right hand, red as wines / 85 From his mountains; an odor of war, like a ripe vineyard, rose from his garments,
Hear the Voice of the Bard
Hear the voice of the Bard ! / Who present, past, and future sees;