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Akhmatova, Anna   |   Arabian Nights   |   Arp, Jean Hans   |   Attar   |   Atwood, Margaret   |   Baba Tahir Oryan of Hamadan   |   Baudelaire, Charles   |   Behramoglu, Ataol   |   Blake, William   |   Brecht, Bertolt   |   Breton, André   |   Byron, Gordon George (Lord)   |   Carroll, Lewis   |   C'hang Ling, Wan   |   Chen, Yuan   |   Clough, Arthur Hugh   |   Coleridge, Samuel Taylor   |   Confucius   |   Cosbuc, George   |   Cummings, Edward Estlin   |   Dario, Ruben   |   De Cleyre, Voltairine   |   De Vere, Aubrey   |   Dickinson, Emily   |   Donne, John   |   Eluard, Paul   |   Emerson, Ralph Waldo   |   Emre, Yunus   |   Faiz, Faiz Ahmed   |   Farrokhzad, Forough   |   Ferdowsi   |   Gay, John   |   Gibran, Khalil   |   Ginsberg, Allen   |   Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von   |   Hafiz   |   Herrick, Robert   |   Hikmet, Nazim   |   Homer   |   Hughes, Langston   |   Hung, Han   |   Jamal, Mo   |   Jones, LeRoi   |   Keats, John   |   Kipling, Rudyard   |   Kushrau, Amir   |   Lawson, Henry   |   Lennon, John   |   Levertov, Denise   |   Lindsay, Vachel   |   Mayakovsky, Vladimir   |   Milligan, Spike   |   Mistral, Gabriela   |   Morrisson, Jim   |   Neruda, Pablo   |   O'Shaughnessy, Arthur   |   Parker, Dorothy   |   Paterson, Andrew Barton "Banjo"   |   Paz, Octavio   |   Plath, Sylvia   |   Poe, Edgar Allen   |   Pope, Alexander   |   Rilke, Rainer Maria   |   Rumi, Djalal-ud-Din   |   Saales, Akhavan   |   Scott, F.R.   |   Sepehri, Sohrab   |   Shakespeare, William   |   Shamlu, Ahmad   |   Shelley, Percy Bysshe   |   Sheridan, Richard B.   |   Tennyson, Alfred   |   Thomas, Dylan   |   Turold   |   Veli Kanik, Ohran   |   Whitman, Walt   |   Wilde, Oscar   |   Williams, William Carlos   |   Wordsworth, William   |   Yeats, William Butler   |   Yushij, Nima

Blake, William


The Land of Dreams

 Awake, awake, my little boy !
Thou wast thy mother's only joy ;
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep ?
Awake ! Thy father does thee keep.

'O, what land is the Land of Dreams ?
What are its mountains, and what are its streams ?
O father ! I saw my mother there,
Among the lilies by waters fair.

'Among the lambs, clothèd in white,
She walk'd with her Thomas in sweet delight.
I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn ;
O ! when shall I again return ?'

Dear child, I also by pleasant streams
Have wander'd all night in the Land of Dreams ;
But tho' calm and warm the waters wide,
I could not get to the other side.

'Father, O father ! what do we here
In this land of unbelief and fear ?
The Land of Dreams is better far,
Above the light of the morning star.'


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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 ot Its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.'


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The New Jerusalem

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my charriot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.

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The Fly

Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength and breath
And the want
Of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

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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 use'd 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 see,
His children as pleasant and happy as he:
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel
But kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.


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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, & what art.
Could 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 grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spear
And water'd 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!


****************************************************

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 next,
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?
Oh 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 year.

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



*************************************************

Love's Secret

Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.
I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart;
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,
Ah! she did depart!

Soon as she was gone from me,
A traveler came by,
Silently, invisibly
He took her with a sigh.