O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
'The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.
'The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
par William Blake, publié le mar. 18/01/2011 à 14:32
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forest of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
par William Blake, publié le mer. 05/01/2011 à 20:41
Children of the future age,
Reading this indignant page,
Know that in a former time
Love, sweet love, was thought a crime.
par William Blake, publié le dim. 02/01/2011 à 16:20
Awake, awake, my little boy!
Thou wast thy mother's only joy;
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
par William Blake, publié le sam. 18/12/2010 à 06:56
"I die, I die!" the Mother said,
"My children die for lack of bread.
What more has the merciless Tyrant said?"
par William Blake, publié le mar. 07/12/2010 à 22:27
But in the Wine-presses the human grapes sing not nor dance:Lire la poésie...