To The Accuser Who is The God of This World
Truly My Satan thou art but a Dunce
And dost not know the Garment from the Man
Every Harlot was a Virgin once
Nor canst thou ever change Kate into Nan
Tho thou art Worship'd by the Names Divine
Of Jesus & Jehovah thou art still
The Son of Morn in weary Nights decline
The lost Travellers Dream under the Hill
William Blake
D'autres poésies de William Blake
A Cradle Song
Sweet dreams form a shade,
O'er my lovely infants head.
A Divine Image
Cruelty has a human heart,
And Jealousy a human...
A Dream
Once a dream did weave a shade
O'er my angel-guarded...
A Little Boy Lost
v'Nought loves another as itself,
Nor venerates another...
A Little Girl Lost
Children of the future age,
Reading this indignant...
A Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did...
A Song
Sweet dreams, form a shade
O'er my lovely infant's...
A War Song to Englishmen
Prepare, prepare the iron helm of war,
Bring forth the...
Ah Sunflower
Ah Sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of...
Ah! Sunflower
Ah Sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of...
Précédentes poésies
your little voice...
your little voice
Over the wires came leaping
and i...
youful
youful
larger
of smallish)
Humble...
you shall above all things...
you shall above all things be glad and young
For if you're...
you said Is
you said Is
there anything which
is dead or alive...
you being in love...
you being in love
will tell who softly asks in love,

