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Уильям Блэйк [41]
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The  countless gold of a merry heart,
The  rubies and pearls of a loving eye,
The  indolent never can bring to the mart,
Nor  the secret hoard up in his treasury.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 359 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

Youth of delight come hither,
And see the opening morn,
Image of truth new born.
Doubt is fled & clouds of reason,
Dark disputes & artful teazing.
Folly is an endless maze.
Tangled roots perplex her ways,
How many have fallen there!
They stumble all night over bones of the dead:
And feel they know not what but care:
And wish to lead others when they should be led.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 293 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

I love to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the sky-lark sings with me.
O! what sweet company.
 
But to go to school in a summer morn,
O! it drives all joy away;
Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day,
In sighing and dismay.
 
Ah! then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour,
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learnings bower.
Worn thro' with the dreary shower.
 
How can the bird that is born for joy,
Sit in a cage and sing.
How can a child when fears annoy,
But droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring.
 
0! father & mother, if buds are nip'd;
And blossoms blown away,
And if the tender plants are strip'd
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and cares dismay,
 
How shall the summer arise in joy
Or the summer fruits appear.
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy
Or bless the mellowing year,
When the blasts of winter appear.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 327 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

Whate'er is Born of Mortal Birth,
Must be consumed with the Earth
To rise from Generation free:
Then what have I to do with thee?
 
The Sexes sprung from Shame & Pride
Blowd in the morn; in evening died
But Mercy changd Death into Sleep;
The Sexes rose to work & weep.
 
Thou Mother of my Mortal part,
With cruelty didst mould my Heart.
And with false self-decieving tears,
Didst bind my Nostrils Eyes & Ears.
 
Didst close my Tongue in senseless clay
And me to Mortal Life betray:
The Death of Jesus set me free.
Then what have I to do with thee?
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 310 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

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.
 
And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
 
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.
 
And into my garden stole,
When the night had veild the pole;
In the morning glad I see,
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 309 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

My inother groand! my father wept.
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud:
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
 
Struggling in my fathers hands:
Striving against my swadling bands:
Bound and weary I thought best
To sulk upon my mothers breast.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 324 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

Pity would be no more,
If we did not make somebody Poor:
And Mercy no more could be,
If all were as happy as we:
 
And mutual fear brings peace:
Till the selfish loves increase.
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care.
 
He sits down with holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears:
Then Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot.
 
Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head;
And the Gatterpiller and Fly,
Feed on the Mystery.
 
And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat:
And the Raven his nest has made.
In its thickest shade.
 
The Gods of the earth and sea,
Sought thro' Nature to find this Tree
But their search was all in vain;
There grows one in the Human Brain
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 320 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

I wander thro'each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
 
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
In every voice; in every ban,
The mmd-forg'd manacles I hear
 
How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls
 
But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 340 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

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.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 321 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

I went to the Garden of Love.
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
 
And the gates of this Chapel were. shut,
And Thou shalt not, writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore,
 
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 329 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun:
Seeking after that sweet golden clime,
Where the travellers journey is done.
 
Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow:
Arise from their graves and aspire,
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 338 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

A flower was offerd to me:
Such a flower as May never bore.
But I said I've a Pretty Rose-tree,
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.
 
Then I went to me Pretty Rose-tree:
To tend her by day and by night.
But my Rose turnd away with jealousy:
And her thorns were my only delight.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 350 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

0 Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm;
 
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 339 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

When the voices of children, are heard on the green
And whisprings are in the dale:
The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,
My face turns green and pale.
 
Then come home my children, the sun is gone down
And the dews of night arise
Your spring & your day, are wasted in play
And your winter and night in disguise.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 309 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

A little black thing among the snow:
Crying weep, weep, in notes of woe!
Where are thy father & mother? say?
They are both gone up to the church to pray.
 
Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smil'd among the winters snow;
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.
 
And because I am happy, & dance & sing,
They think they have done me no injury:
And are gone to praise God & his Priest & Kingj
Who make up a heaven of our misery.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 382 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

All the night in woe,
Lyca's parents go:
Over vallies deep,
While the desarts weep.
 
Tired and woe-begone,
Hoarse with making moan:
Arm in arm seven days,
They trac'd the desart ways.
 
Seven nights they sleep,
Among shadows deep:
And dream they see their child
Starv'd in desart wild.
 
Pale thro' pathless ways
The fancied image strays,
Famish'd, weeping, weak
With hollow piteous shriek
 
Rising from unrest,
The trembling woman prest,
With feet of weary woe;
She could no further go.
 
In his arms he bore,
Her arm'd with sorrow sore:
Till before their way,
A couching lion lay.
 
Turning back was vain,
Soon his heavy mane,
Bore them to the ground;
Then he stalk'd around.
 
Smelling to his prey,
But their fears allay,
When he licks their hands:
And silent by them stands.
 
They look upon his eyes
Fili'd with deep surprise:
And wondering behold,
A spirit arm'd in gold.
 
On his head a crown
On his shoulders down,
Flow'd his golden hair.
Gone was all their care.
 
Follow me he said,
Weep not for the maid:
In my palace deep,
Lyca lies asleep.
 
Then they followed,
Where the vision led:
And saw their sleeping child,
Among tygers wild.
 
To this day they dwell
In a lonely dell
Nor fear the wolvish howl,
Nor the lions growl.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 278 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

In futurity
I prophetic see,
That the earth from sleep,
(Grave the sentence deep)
 
Shall arise and seek
For her maker meek:
And the desart wild
Become a garden mild.
 

x x x

 
 
In the southern clime,
Where the summers prime,
Never fades away;
Lovely Lyca lay.
 
Seven summers old
Lovely Lyca told,
She had wanderd long,
Hearing wild birds song.
 
Sweet sleep come to me
Underneath this tree;
Do father, mother weep, -
"Where can Lyca sleep".
 
Lost in desart wild
Is your little child.
How can Lyca sleep,
If her mother weep.
 
If her heart does ake,
Then let Lyca wake;
If my mother sleep,
Lyca shall not weep.
 
Frowning frowning night,
O'er this desart bright,
Let thy moon arise,
While I close my eyes.
 
Sleeping Lyca lay;
While the beasts of prey,
Gome from caverns deep,
View'd the maid asleep
 
The kingly lion stood
And the virgin view'd,
Then he gambold round
O'er the hallowd ground:
 
Leopards, tygers play,
Round her as she lay;
While the lion old,
Bow'd his mane of gold,
 
And her bosom lick,
And upon her neck,
From his eyes of flame,
Ruby tears there came;
 
While the lioness
Loos'd her slender dress,
And naked they convey'd
To caves the sleeping maid.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 314 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

Is this a holy thing to see,
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes redued to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
 
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
 
And their sun does never shine.
And their fields are bleak & bare,
And their ways are fili'd with thorns
It is eternal winter there.
 
For where-e'er the sun does shine,
And where-e'er the rain does fall:
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 332 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

Love seeketh not Itself to please,
Nor for itself hatli any care;
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hells despair.
 
So sang a little Clod of Clay,
Trodden with the catties feet;
But a Pebble of the brook,
Warbled out these metres meet.
 
Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight:
Joys in anothers loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heavens despite.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 325 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

Can I see anothers woe,
And not be in sorrow too.
Can I see anothers grief,
And not seek for kind relief.
 
Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrows share,
Can a father see his child,
Weep, nor be with sorrow fili'd.
 
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 birds grief & care
Hear the woes that infants bear -
 
And not sit beside the nest
Pouring pity in their breast.
And not sit the cradle near
Weeping tear on infants tear.
 
And not sit both night & day,
Wiping all our tears away.
O! 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 near.
 
O! he gives to us his joy,
That our grief he may destroy
Till our grief is fled & gone
He doth sit by us and moan.
Уильям Блэйк | Просмотров: 285 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

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