William Blake (1757 – 1827)
English poet, Christian mystic, painter, printmaker, and engraver.
My mother groan'd! my father wept.
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud:
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoyed in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move!
The sound is forced, the notes are few!
They suppose that Woman's Love is Sin; in consequence all the Loves & Graces with them are Sin.
When nations grow old, the Arts grow cold,
And Commerce settles on every tree.
Mock on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau.
Mock on, mock on'tis all in vain!
You throw the sand against the wind,
And the wind blows it back again.
Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?
Or wilt thou go ask the Mole?
Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?
Or Love in a golden bowl?
This cabinet is formed of gold
And pearl and crystal shining bright,
And within it opens into a world
And a little lovely moony night.
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.
"I die, I die!" the Mother said,
"My children die for lack of Bread."
The look of love alarms
Because 'tis filled with fire;
But the look of soft deceit
Shall win the lover's hire.
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree.
The hours of folly are measured by the clock, but of wisdom no clock can measure.
The Goddess Fortune is the devils servant ready to Kiss any ones Arse.
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost 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.
He who desires, but acts not, breeds pestilence.
Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:
"Pipe a song about a Lamb."
So I piped with merry cheer;
"Piper, pipe that song again."
So I piped; he wept to hear.
It is not at all certain that a merely moral criticism of society may not be just as "revolutionary" and revolution, after all, means turning things upside down as the politico-economic criticism which is fashionable at this moment. Blake was not a politician, but there is more understanding of the nature of capitalist society in a poem like "I wander through each charter'd street" than in three-quarters of Socialist literature.
The Foundation of Empire is Art & Science Remove them or Degrade them & the Empire is No More Empire follows Art & Not Vice Versa as Englishmen suppose.
The Angel that presided o'er my birth
Said, "Little creature, formed of joy and mirth,
Go love without the help of any thing on earth."