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Sample essay topic, essay writing: Blakes Poem - 2486 words

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.. ot 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 brookWarbled 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 & bare,And their ways are fill'd with thorns:It is eternal winter there. For where-e'er the sun does shine,And where-e'er the rain does fall,Babe can never hunger there,Nor poverty the mind appal. The Little Girl Lost In futurityI prophetic seeThat the earth from sleep(Grave the sentence deep) Shall arise and seekFor her maker meek:And the desart wildBecome a garden mild. In the southern climeWhere the summer's primeNever fades away,Lovely Lyca lay.

Seven summers oldLovely Lyca told;She had wander'd long,Hearing wild birds' song.Sweet sleep come to meUnderneath this tree;Do father, mother weep -'Where can Lyca sleep?' Lost in desart wildIs your little child:How can Lyca sleepIf her mother weep?If her heart does ake,Then let Lyca wake;If my mother sleepLyca shall not weep.Frowning frowning night,O'er this desart brightLet thy moon arise,While I close my eyes.Sleeping Lyca lay;While the beasts of preyCome from caverns deep,View'd the maid asleep.The kingly lion stoodAnd the virgin view'd,Then he gambol'd roundO'er the hallow'd ground:Leopards, tygers playRound her as she lay;While the lion oldBow'd his mane of gold,And her bosom lick,And upon her neckFrom his eyes of flameRuby tears there came;While the lionessLoos'd her slender dress,And naked they convey'dTo caves the sleeping maid. The Little Girl FoundAll the night in woeLyca's parents go:Over vallies deep,While the desarts weep.Tired and woe-begone,Hoarse with making moan:Arm in arm seven daysThey trac'd the desart ways.Seven nights they sleepAmong shadows deep:And dream they see their childStarv'd in desart wild.Pale thro' pathless waysThe fancied image strays,Famish'd, weeping, weakWith hollow piteous shriek.Rising from unrest,The trembling woman prestWith feet of weary woe;She could no further go. In his arms he boreHer, arm'd with sorrow sore;Till before their wayA couching lion lay.Turning back was vain,Soon his heavy maneBore them to the ground,Then he stalk'd around,Smelling to his prey,But their fears allay,When he licks their hands;And silent by them stands.They look upon his eyesFilled with deep surprise:And wondering beholdA spirit arm'd in gold,On his head a crown,On his shoulders downFlow'd his golden hair;Gone is all their care.Follow me, he said,Weep not for the maid;In my palace deepLyca lies asleep.Then they followedWhere the vision led:And saw their sleeping childAmong tygers wild.To this day they dwellIn a lonely dell,Nor fear the wolvish howl,Nor the lion's growl. The Chimney SweeperA little black thing among the snowCrying 'weep 'weep! in notes of woe:Where are thy father & mother? say?They are both gone up to the church to pray. Because I was happy upon the heath,And smil'd among the winter's snowThey clothed me in the clothes of deathAnd taught me to sing the notes of woe.And because I am happy, & dance & singThey think they have done me no injury:And are gone to praise God and his Priest & King,Who make up a heaven of our misery

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Nurse's SongWhen the voices of children are heard on the greenAnd whisp'rings are in the dale,The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,My face turns green and pale.Then come home my children, the sun is gone down,And the dews of night arise:Your spring & your day are wasted in playAnd your winter and night in disguise. The Sick Rose O Rose, thou art sick;The invisible wormThat flies in the nightIn the howling storm:Has found out thy bedOf crimson joy;And his dark secret loveDoes thy life destroy. The Fly Little Fly,Thy summer's playMy thoughtless handHas brush'd away.Am not IA fly like thee?Or art not thouA man like me? For I danceAnd drink & sing,Till some blind handShall brush my wing.If thought is lifeAnd strength and breath;And the wantOf thought is death; Then am IA happy fly,If I live,Or if I die. The Angel I Dreamt a Dream! what can it mean?And that I was a maiden QueenGuarded by an Angel mild;Witless woe was ne'er beguil'd!And I wept both night and dayAnd he wip'd my tears away,And I wept both day and nightAnd hid from him my heart's delight.So he took his wings and fled:Then the morn blush'd rosy red:I dried my tears & arm'd my fearsWith ten thousand shields and spears.Soon my Angel came again:I was arm'd, he came in vain:For the time of youth was fledAnd grey hairs were on my head. The Tyger Tyger, Tyger, burning bright,In the forests of the night:What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what artCould twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand? & what dread feet?What the hammer? what the chain,In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? what dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spearsAnd water'd heaven with their tears,Did he smile his work to see?Did he who made the Lamb make thee?Tyger, Tyger, burning brightIn the forests of the night:What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry? My Pretty Rose Tree A flower was offer'd to me;Such a flower as May never bore;But I said, I've a Pretty Rose-tree,And I passed the sweet flower o'er.Then I went to my Pretty Rose-tree;To tend her by day and by night;But my Rose turned away with jealousy:And her thorns were my only delight. Ah, Sun-flower Ah Sun-flower! weary of timeWho countest the steps of the Sun;Seeking after that sweet golden climeWhere 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 aspireWhere my Sun-flower wishes to go. The Lilly The modest Rose puts forth a thorn:The humble Sheep, a threat'ning horn:While the Lily white shall in Love delight,Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

The Garden of Love I went to the Garden of Love,And saw what I never had seen:A Chapel was built in the midst,Where I used to play on the green.And the gates of this Chapel were shut,And Thou shalt not writ over the door;So I turn'd to the Garden of LoveThat so many sweet flowers bore,And I saw it was filled with graves,And tomb-stones where flowers should be:And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,And binding with briars my joys & desires. The Little Vagabond Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold;But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm;Besides I can tell where I am used well;Such usage in heaven will never do well.But if at the Church they would give us some Ale,And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale;We'd sing and we'd pray all the live-long day,Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray,Then the Parson might preach & drink & sing,And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring:And modest dame Lurch, who is always at church,Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch.And God like a father rejoicing to seeHis children as pleasant and happy as he:Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the BarrelBut kiss him & give him both drink and apparel. London I wander thro' each charter'd street,Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,A mark in every face I meetMarks of weakness, marks of woe.In every cry of every Man,In every Infant's cry of fear,In every voice, in every ban,The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.How the Chimney-sweeper's cryEvery black'ning Church appalls,And the hapless Soldier's sighRuns in blood down Palace walls:But most thro' midnight streets I hearHow the youthful Harlot's curseBlasts the new-born Infant's tear,And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse. The Human Abstract Pity would be no moreIf we did not make somebody Poor;And Mercy no more could beIf all were as happy as we:And mutual fear brings peace,Till the selfish loves increase,Then Cruelty knits a snare,And spreads his baits with care.He sits down with holy fears,And waters the ground with tearsThen Humility takes its rootUnderneath his foot. Soon spreads the dismal shadeOf Mystery over his head;And the Caterpillar and FlyFeed on the Mystery. And it bears the fruit of Deceit,Ruddy and sweet to eat;And the Raven his nest has madeIn its thickest shade.The Gods of the earth and seaSought thro' Nature to find this Tree:But their search was all in vain:There grows one in the Human Brain.

Infant Sorrow My mother groan'd! my father wept,Into the dangerous world I leapt:Helpless, naked, piping loud;Like a fiend hid in a cloud. Struggling in my father's hands,Striving against my swaddling bands;Bound and weary I thought bestTo sulk upon my mother's breast. A Poison TreeI 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 water'd it in fears,Night & morning with my tears;And I sunned it with smilesAnd 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 veil'd the pole:In the morning glad I seeMy foe outstretch'd beneath the tree. A Little Boy LostNought loves another as itselfNor venerates another so,Nor is it possible to ThoughtA greater than itself to know:And Father, how can I love you,Or any of my brothers more?I love you like the little birdThat picks up crumbs around the door.The Priest sat by and heard the child,In trembling zeal he seiz'd his hair:He led him by his little coat;And all admir'd the Priestly care.And standing on the altar high,Lo, what a fiend is here! said he:One who sets reason up for judgeOf our most holy Mystery.The weeping child could not be heard,The weeping parents wept in vain:They strip'd him to his little shirt,And bound him in an iron chain,And burn'd him in a holy place,Where many had been burn'd before:The weeping parents wept in vain,Are such things done on Albion's shore? A Little Girl Lost Children of the future Age,Reading this indignant page:Know that in a former timeLove! sweet Love! was thought a crime. In the Age of gold,Free from winter's cold;Youth and maiden bright,To the holy lightNaked in the sunny beams delight.Once a youthful pairFill'd with softest care,Met in garden bright,Where the holy lightHad just remov'd the curtains of the night.There in rising day,On the grass they play:Parents were afar,Strangers came not near,And the maiden soon forgot her fear.Tired with kisses sweetThey agree to meet,When the silent sleepWaves o'er heaven's deep;And the weary tired wanderers weep.To her father whiteCame the maiden bright;But his loving look,Like the holy bookAll her tender limbs with terror shook.Ona! pale and weak!To thy father speak!O the trembling fear!O the dismal care!That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair!' To TirzahWhate'er is born of mortal birthMust be consumed with the EarthTo rise from Generation free;Then what have I to do with thee?The Sexes sprung in Shame & Pride,Blow'd in the morn: in evening died:But Mercy chang'd Death into Sleep;The Sexes rose to work and weep.Thou Mother of my Mortal PartWith cruelty didst mould my HeartAnd with false self-deceiving tearsDidst bind my Nostrils, Eyes & Ears,Didst close my Tongue in senseless clayAnd me to Mortal Life betray:The death of Jesus set me free;Then what have I to do with thee? The SchoolboyI love to rise in a summer morn,When the birds sing on every tree;The distant huntsman winds his horn,And the skylark sings with me.O! what sweet company. But to go to school in a summer mornO! it drives all joy away:Under a cruel eye outworn,The little ones spend the day,In sighing and dismay.

Ah! then at times I drooping sit,And spend many an anxious hour.Nor in my book can I take delight,Nor sit in learning's bower,Worn thro with the dreary shower.How can the bird that is born for joySit in a cage and sing?How can a child when fears annoyBut droop his tender wingAnd forget his youthful spring?O! father & mother, if buds are nip'd,And blossoms blown away,And if the tender plants are strip'dOf their joy in the springing dayBy sorrow and care's dismay, How shall the summer arise in joyOr the summer fruits appearOr how shall we gather what griefs destroyOr bless the mellowing year,When the blasts of winter appear? A Divine Image Cruelty has a Human HeartAnd Jealousy a Human Face:Terror the Human Form DivineAnd Secrecy the human dress.The Human Dress is forged Iron,The Human Form, a fiery Forge,The Human Face, a Furnace seal'd,The Human Heart, its hungry Gorge.The Voice of the Ancient BardYouth of delight, come hither:And see the opening morn,Image of truth new-born:Doubt is fled & clouds of reason,Dark disputes & artful teazing.Folly is an endless maze,Tangled roots perplex her ways,How many have fallen there!They stumble all night over bones of the dead;And feel they know not what but care;And wish to lead others when they should be led.

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