Songs of Innocence and of Experience quotes

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?

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.’

‘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.

‘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.

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.

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.

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.

Can I see another’s woe, And not be in sorrow too?

Can I see another’s grief, And not seek for kind relief?

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.

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Does spring hide its joy, When buds and blossoms grow?

Does the sower Sow by night, Or the ploughman in darkness plough?

‘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:

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.’

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!

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!

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?

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?

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

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 turned to the Garden of Love That so many sweet flowers bore.

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 turned to the Garden of Love That so many sweet flowers bore.

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.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut, And ‘Thou shalt not’ writ over the door; So I turned to the Garden of Love That so many sweet flowers bore.

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.

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.

My mother groaned, 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 best To sulk upon my mother’s breast.

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 sunnèd it with smiles And with soft deceitful wiles.

Children of the future age, Reading this indignant page, Know that in a former time Love, sweet love, was thought a crime.

In the age of gold, Free from winter’s cold, Youth and maiden bright, To the holy light, Naked in the sunny beams delight.

Cruelty has a human heart, And Jealousy a human face; Terror the human form divine, And Secrecy the human dress.

The human dress is forgèd iron, The human form a fiery forge, The human face a furnace sealed, The human heart its hungry gorge.

Cruelty has a human heart, And Jealousy a human face; Terror the human form divine, And Secrecy the human dress.

The human dress is forgèd iron, The human form a fiery forge, The human face a furnace sealed, The human heart its hungry gorge.

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 through with the dreary shower.

How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing?

How can a child, when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring!