To Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love All pray in their distress, And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness.
William BlakeHow have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you! The languid strings do scarcely move! The sound is forced, the notes are few!
William BlakeTyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
William BlakeAh, 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.
William Blake