Wiliam Blake Poems by William Blake

By William Blake

This anthology is a radical advent to vintage literature if you happen to haven't but skilled those literary masterworks. in the event you have recognized and enjoyed those works long ago, this is often a call for participation to reunite with outdated associates in a clean new structure. From Shakespeare s finesse to Oscar Wilde s wit, this designated assortment brings jointly works as varied and influential because the Pilgrim s development and Othello. As an anthology that invitations readers to immerse themselves within the masterpieces of the literary giants, it's must-have addition to any library.

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O’er my sins thou sit and weep, And lull thy own sins fast asleep. ‘What transgressions I commit Are for thy transgressions fit. They thy harlots, thou their slave; And my bed becomes their grave. ‘Never, never, I return: Still for victory I burn. com - The World's Poetry Archive 30 Living, thee alone I’ll have; And when dead I’ll be thy grave. ’ ‘Poor, pale, pitiable form That I follow in a storm; Iron tears and groans of lead Bind around my aching head. ‘Till I turn from Female love And root up the Infernal Grove, I shall never worthy be To step into Eternity.

Ah, life as frail as flower! O ghastly death! com - The World's Poetry Archive 45 Seek'st thou that flow'r to deck thy horrid temples? `My lord was like a star in highest heav'n Drawn down to earth by spells and wickedness; My lord was like the opening eyes of day When western winds creep softly o'er the flowers; `But he is darken'd; like the summer's noon Clouded; fall'n like the stately tree, cut down; The breath of heaven dwelt among his leaves. ' Thus having spoke, she raisèd up her head, And saw the bloody napkin by her side, Which in her arms she brought; and now, tenfold More terrifièd, saw it unfold itself.

What transgressions I commit Are for thy transgressions fit. They thy harlots, thou their slave; And my bed becomes their grave. ‘Never, never, I return: Still for victory I burn. com - The World's Poetry Archive 30 Living, thee alone I’ll have; And when dead I’ll be thy grave. ’ ‘Poor, pale, pitiable form That I follow in a storm; Iron tears and groans of lead Bind around my aching head. ‘Till I turn from Female love And root up the Infernal Grove, I shall never worthy be To step into Eternity.

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