Where can Lyca sleep? How can Lyca sleep If her mother weep? Sleeping Lyca lay, While the beasts of prey, Come from caverns deep, Viewed the maid asleep. 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. 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. 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.
Gone was all their care. A little black thing among the snow, Crying! When the voices of children are heard on the green, And whisperings 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 and your day are wasted in play, And your winter and night in disguise.
O rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm, That flies in the night, In the howling storm,. Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.
If I live, Or if I die. I dreamt a dream! What can it mean? So he took his wings, and fled; Then the morn blushed rosy red. I dried my tears, and armed my fears With ten thousand shields and spears. Soon my Angel came again; I was armed, he came in vain; For the time of youth was fled, And grey hairs were on my head.
Tiger, tiger, 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 seize 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? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 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.
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! And I saw it was filled with graves, And tombstones where flowers should be; And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, And binding with briars my joys and desires.
Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold; But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm. Besides, I can tell where I am used well; Such usage in heaven will never do well. And God, like a father, rejoicing to see His children as pleasant and happy as He, Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel, But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.
I wander through each chartered street, Near where the chartered Thames does flow, A mark in every face I meet, Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
Pity would be no more If we did not make somebody poor, And Mercy no more could be If 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 tears; Then Humility takes its root Underneath his foot.
Soon spreads the dismal shade Of Mystery over his head, And the caterpillar and fly Feed on the Mystery. The gods of the earth and sea Sought through nature to find this tree, But their search was all in vain: There grows one in the human Brain.
My mother groaned, my father wept: Into the dangerous world I leapt, Helpless, naked, piping loud, Like a fiend hid in a cloud. 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 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,—. Many of the poems draw attention to the positive aspects of natural human understanding prior to the corruption and distortion of experience.
These latter poems treat sexual morality in terms of the repressive effects of jealousy, shame, and secrecy, all of which corrupt the ingenuousness of innocent love. With regard to religion, they are less concerned with the character of individual faith than with the institution of the Church, its role in politics, and its effects on society and the individual mind.
Experience thus adds a layer to innocence that darkens its hopeful vision while compensating for some of its blindness. The style of the Songs of Innocence and Experience is simple and direct, but the language and the rhythms are painstakingly crafted, and the ideas they explore are often deceptively complex. Blake frequently employs the familiar meters of ballads, nursery rhymes, and hymns, applying them to his own, often unorthodox conceptions.
The key to the poem lies in its second line. The narrator is talking about the change in how he now sees his surroundings, not a change in the garden itself. There are strong echoes of the passage from innocence to knowledge of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. In this poem, Blake may also be attacking a new chapel built in Lambeth near his then home.
This chapel was built by subscription: parishioners paid for their pews. And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. The narrator wanders through London and finds even the streets and the river suffering under political oppression. In everyone he passes, he sees signs of misery and moral weakness. He visualises the cry of the chimney-sweep covering the churches like a pall draped over a coffin, and the last breath of the dying soldier running like blood down the walls of the royal palace.
That power is achieved in good part through repetition. They may represent the deeply ingrained respect for tradition and institutions that stopped the people of London from following the example of revolutionary Paris and overthrowing their oppressors in Church and State.
Raymond Antrobus. Blake believed in the power of the imagination. Meet the various characters in his personal mythology and their meaning in …. Main menu additional Become a Member Shop. Twitter Facebook Email Pinterest. William Blake at Tate Britain Book tickets. When I from black and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy: Ill shade him from the heat till he can bear, To lean in joy upon our fathers knee.
Summary In this poem, Blake imagines the voice of a child. Analysis The poem suggests that physical existence, specifically skin colour, is unimportant compared to the life of the spirit. Songs of Innocence: The Chimney Sweeper. Songs of Experience: Holy Thursday. Songs of Experience: The Chimney Sweeper. Songs of Experience: The Tyger.
Songs of Experience: Garden of Love. Summary The narrator tells of his visit to the Garden of Love and of the chapel standing where he played as a child. Analysis The key to the poem lies in its second line. Songs of Experience: London. Summary The narrator wanders through London and finds even the streets and the river suffering under political oppression.
Explore more Blake Left Right. William Blake — View by appointment. Tate Etc.
0コメント