Songs of Innocence (1789)

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The illustrations used are also in the public domain: They are from the British Museum's copy of the 1795 edition (copy A). The original images, as well as many other variations, may be found at the William Blake Archive, www.BlakeArchive.org.

Songs of Innocence (Frontispiece)

Introduction

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 sung 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 vanished from my sight;
   And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,
   And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
   Every child may joy to hear.

The Shepherd

How sweet is the shepherd’s sweet lot!
From the morn to the evening he strays;
He shall follow his sheep all the day,
And his tongue shall be fillèd with praise.

For he hears the lambs’ innocent call,
And he hears the ewes’ tender reply;
He is watchful while they are in peace,
For they know when their shepherd is nigh.

The Echoing Green

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.

The Lamb

Little lamb, who made thee?
   Does 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?
   Does thou know who made thee?

   Little lamb, I’ll tell thee;
   Little lamb, I’ll tell thee:

He is callèd 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 callèd by His name.
   Little lamb, God bless thee!
   Little lamb, God bless thee!.

The Little Black Boy

 

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
   And I am black, but O 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 kissèd me,
   And, pointing 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
   Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

 ‘For, when our souls have learned 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.

The Blossom

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.

The Chimney-Sweeper

 

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 set 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.

The Little Boy Lost

‘Father, father, where are you going?
   O 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.

The Little Boy Found

The little boy lost in the lonely fen,
   Led by the wandering light,
   Began to cry, but God, ever nigh,
Appeared like his father, in white.

He kissed the child, and by the hand led,
   And to his mother brought,
Who in sorrow pale, through the lonely dale,
   Her little boy weeping sought.

Laughing Song

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

When the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene;
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing ‘Ha ha he!’

When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread:
Come live, and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of ‘Ha ha he!’

A Cradle Song

Sweet dreams, form a shade
O’er my lovely infant’s head!
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams
By happy, silent, moony beams!

Sweet Sleep, with soft down
Weave thy brows an infant crown!
Sweet Sleep, angel mild,
Hover o’er my happy child!

Sweet smiles, in the night
Hover over my delight!
Sweet smiles, mother’s smiles,
All the livelong night beguiles.

Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes!
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.

Sleep, sleep, happy child!
All creation slept and smiled.
Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,
While o’er thee thy mother weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face
Holy image I can trace;
Sweet babe, once like thee
Thy Maker lay, and wept for me:

Wept for me, for thee, for all,
When He was an infant small.
Thou His image ever see,
Heavenly face that smiles on thee!

Smiles on thee, on me, on all,
Who became an infant small;
Infant smiles are His own smiles;
Heaven and earth to peace beguiles. 

The Divine Image

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
   All pray in their distress,
   And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.

For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
   Is God our Father dear;
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
   Is man, His child and care.

For Mercy has a human heart;
   Pity, a human face;
And Love, the human form divine:
   And Peace the human dress.

Then every man, of every clime,
   That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine:
   Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

And all must love the human form,
   In heathen, Turk, or Jew.
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell,
   There God is dwelling too.

Holy Thursday

’Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green:
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul’s they like Thames waters flow.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own.
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor.
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

Night

The sun descending in the West,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
   The moon, like a flower
   In heaven’s high bower,
   With silent delight,
   Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy groves,
Where flocks have took delight,
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves
The feet of angels bright;
   Unseen, they pour blessing,
   And joy without ceasing,
   On each bud and blossom,
   And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:
   If they see any weeping
   That should have been sleeping,
   They pour sleep on their head,
   And sit down by their bed.

 When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
   But, if they rush dreadful,
   The angels, most heedful,
   Receive each mild spirit,
   New worlds to inherit.

And there the lion’s ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold:
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold:
   Saying: ‘Wrath by His meekness,
   And, by His health, sickness,
   Is driven away
   From our immortal day.

‘And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep,
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee, and weep.
   For, washed in life’s river,
   My bright mane for ever
   Shall shine like the gold,
   As I guard o’er the fold.’

Spring

      Sound the flute!
      Now it’s mute!
      Birds delight,
      Day and night,
      Nightingale,
      In the dale,
      Lark in sky,—
      Merrily,
Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.

 Little boy,
      Full of joy;
      Little girl,
      Sweet and small;
      Cock does crow,
      So do you;
      Merry voice,
      Infant noise;
Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.

      Little lamb,
      Here I am;
      Come and lick
      My white neck;
      Let me pull
      Your soft wool;
      Let me kiss
      Your soft face;
Merrily, merrily we welcome in the year.

Nurse's Song

When voices of children are heard on the green,
   And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast,
   And everything else is still.
‘Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,
   And the dews of night arise;
Come, come, leave off play, and let us away,
   Till the morning appears in the skies.’

‘No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,
   And we cannot go to sleep;
Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,
   And the hills are all covered with sheep.’
‘Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,
   And then go home to bed.’
The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed,
   And all the hills echoèd.

Infant Joy

‘I have no name; 
I am but two days old.’ 
What shall I call thee? 

‘I happy am, 
Joy is my name.’ 
Sweet joy befall thee! 

Pretty joy! 
Sweet joy, but two days old. 
Sweet joy I call thee: 

Thou dost smile, 
I sing the while; 
Sweet joy befall thee! 

A Dream

Once a dream did weave a shade 
O’er my angel-guarded bed, 
That an emmet lost its way 
Where on grass methought I lay. 

Troubled, wildered, and forlorn, 
Dark, benighted, travel-worn, 
Over many a tangled spray, 
All heart-broke, I heard her say: 

‘O my children! do they cry, 
Do they hear their father sigh? 
Now they look abroad to see, 
Now return and weep for me.’ 

Pitying, I dropped a tear: 
But I saw a glow-worm near, 
Who replied, ‘What wailing wight 
Calls the watchman of the night?’ 

‘I am set to light the ground, 
While the beetle goes his round: 
Follow now the beetle’s hum; 
Little wanderer, hie thee home!’ 

On Another's Sorrow

Can I see another’s woe, 
And not be in sorrow too? 
Can I see another’s grief, 
And not seek for kind relief? 

Can I see a falling tear, 
And not feel my sorrow’s share? 
Can a father see his child 
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled? 

Can a mother sit and hear 
An infant groan, an infant fear? 
No, no! never can it be! 
Never, never can it be! 

And can He who smiles on all 
Hear the wren with sorrows small, 
Hear the small bird’s grief and care, 
Hear the woes that infants bear — 

And not sit beside the nest, 
Pouring pity in their breast, 
And not sit the cradle near, 
Weeping tear on infant’s tear? 

And not sit both night and day, 
Wiping all our tears away? 
O no! never can it be! 
Never, never can it be! 

He doth give His joy to all: 
He becomes an infant small, 
He becomes a man of woe, 
He doth feel the sorrow too. 

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, 
And thy Maker is not by: 
Think not thou canst weep a tear, 
And thy Maker is not near. 

O He gives to us His joy, 
That our grief He may destroy: 
Till our grief is fled and gone 
He doth sit by us and moan. 

Songs of Experience (1794)

Songs of Experience (Frontispiece)

Introduction

Hear the voice of the Bard!
Who present, past, and future, sees;
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walked among the ancient trees;

Calling the lapséd soul,
And weeping in the evening dew;
That might control
The starry pole,
And fallen, fallen light renew!

‘O Earth, O Earth, return!
Arise from out the dewy grass!
Night is worn,
And the morn
Rises from the slumbrous mass.

‘Turn away no more;
Why wilt thou turn away?
The starry floor,
The watery shore,
Is given thee till the break of day.’

Earth's Answer

Earth raised up her head 
From the darkness dread and drear, 
Her light fled, 
Stony dread!
And her locks covered with grey despair. 

‘Prisoned on watery shore, 
Starry jealousy does keep my den 
Cold and hoar; 
Weeping o’er, 
I hear the father of the ancient men. 

‘Selfish father of men! 
Cruel, jealous, selfish fear! 
Can delight, 
Chained in night, 
The virgins of youth and morning bear. 

‘Does spring hide its joy, 
When buds and blossoms grow? 
Does the sower 
Sow by night, 
Or the ploughman in darkness plough? 

‘Break this heavy chain, 
That does freeze my bones around! 
Selfish, vain, 
Eternal bane, 
That free love with bondage bound.’ 

The Clod and The Pebble

‘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 metres 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.’ 

Holy Thursday

Is this a holy thing to see 
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reduced to misery, 
Fed with cold and usurous hand? 

Is that trembling cry a song? 
Can it be a song of joy? 
And so many children poor? 
It is a land of poverty! 

And their sun does never shine, 
And their fields are bleak and bare, 
And their ways are filled with thorns, 
It is eternal winter there. 

For where’er the sun does shine, 
And where’er the rain does fall, 
Babe can never hunger there, 
Nor poverty the mind appall. 

The Little Girl Lost

In futurity 
I prophesy 
That the earth from sleep 
(Grave the sentence deep) 

Shall arise, and seek 
For her Maker meek; 
And the desert wild 
Become a garden mild. 

In the southern clime, 
Where the summer’s prime 
Never fades away, 
Lovely Lyca lay. 

Seven summers old 
Lovely Lyca told. 
She had wandered long, 
Hearing wild birds’ song. 

‘Sweet sleep, come to me, 
Underneath this tree; 
Do father, mother, weep? 
Where can Lyca sleep? 

‘Lost in desert wild 
Is your little child. 
How can Lyca sleep 
If her mother weep? 

‘If her heart does ache, 
Then let Lyca wake; 
If my mother sleep, 
Lyca shall not weep. 

‘Frowning, frowning night, 
O’er this desert bright 
Let thy moon arise, 
While I close my eyes.’ 

Sleeping Lyca lay, 
While the beasts of prey, 
Come from caverns deep, 
Viewed the maid asleep. 

The kingly lion stood, 
And the virgin viewed: 
 Then he gambolled round 
O’er the hallowed ground. 

Leopards, tigers, play 
Round her as she lay; 
While the lion old 
Bowed his mane of gold, 

And her bosom lick, 
And upon her neck, 
From his eyes of flame, 
Ruby tears there came; 

While the lioness 
Loosed her slender dress, 
And naked they conveyed 
To caves the sleeping maid. 

The Little Girl Found

All the night in woe 
Lyca’s parents go 
Over valleys deep, 
While the deserts weep. 

Tired and woe-begone, 
Hoarse with making moan, 
Arm in arm, seven days 
They traced the desert ways. 

Seven nights they sleep 
Among shadows deep, 
And dream they see their child 
Starved in desert wild. 

Pale through pathless ways 
The fancied image strays, 
Famished, weeping, weak, 
With hollow piteous shriek. 

Rising from unrest, 
The trembling woman pressed 
With feet of weary woe; 
She could no further go. 

In his arms he bore Her, 
armed with sorrow sore; 
Till before their way 
A couching lion lay. 

Turning back was vain: 
Soon his heavy mane 
Bore them to the ground, 
Then he stalked around, 

Smelling to his prey; 
But their fears allay 
When he licks their hands, 
And silent by them stands. 

They look upon his eyes, 
Filled with deep surprise; 
And wondering behold 
A spirit armed in gold. 

On his head a crown, 
On his shoulders down 
Flowed his golden hair. 
Gone was all their care. 

‘Follow me,’ he said; 
‘Weep not for the maid; 
In my palace deep, 
Lyca lies asleep.’ 

Then they followèd 
Where the vision led, 
And saw their sleeping child 
Among tigers wild. 

To this day they dwell 
In a lonely dell, 
Nor fear the wolvish howl 
Nor the lion’s growl. 

The Chimney-Sweeper

A little black thing among the snow, 
Crying! ‘weep! weep!’ in notes of woe! ‘
Where are thy father and mother? Say?’
‘They are both gone up to the church to pray. 

‘Because I was happy upon the heath, 
And smiled among the winter’s snow, 
They clothed me in the clothes of death, 
And taught me to sing the notes of woe. 

‘And because I am happy and dance and sing, 
They think they have done me no injury, 
And are gone to praise God and His priest and king, 
Who made up a heaven of our misery.’