Favourite poet

William Blake



I must create a system, or be enslav’d by another man’s. I will not reason and compare: my business is to create—Jerusalem


William Blake, English artist, mystic and poet, was born in London on November 28, 1757. From early childhood, Blake spoke of having visions—at four he saw God "put his head to the window"; around age nine, while walking through the countryside, he saw a tree filled with angels. Blake learned to read and write at home. At age ten, Blake expressed a wish to become a painter, so his parents sent him to drawing school. Two years later, Blake began writing poetry.


Blake wrote the Songs of Innocence (1789): a poetry collection written from the child’s point of view, of innocent wonderment and spontaneity in natural settings which includes “Little Boy Lost”, “Little Boy Found” and “The Lamb”. He also wrote Songs of Experience (1794), which contains many poems in response to ones from Innocence, suggesting ironic contrasts as the child matures and learns of such concepts as fear and envy.


Poetry Books
Songs of Innocence and Experience

Poetry
A Poison Tree
Auguries of Innocence
Holy Thursday
I Heard an Angel
Infant Sorrow
Introduction to Songs of Innocence
Jerusalem
London
Love's Secret
Songs of Experience-My Pretty Rose-Tree
Songs of Experience-The Fly
Songs of Experience-The Sunflower
Songs of Innocence-Night
Songs of Innocence-The Chimney Sweeper
Songs of Innocence-The Little Black Boy
Songs of Innocence-The Schoolboy
Songs of Innocence-The Shepherd
The Chimney Sweeper
The Clod and the Pebble
The Garden of Love
The Lamb
The Land of Dreams
The Sick Rose
The Tyger


The Lamb
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!


The Tyger
Tyger! Tyger! 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 sieze 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?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


The Poison Tree
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.


References:
http://poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/116
http://www.online-literature.com/blake/