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Music, when soft voices die,

Vibrates in the memory—

, when sweet violets sicken,

Live within the sense they quicken.

 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,

Are heaped for the beloved’s bed;

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,

Love itself shall slumber on.

 

 

 

)

 

In their noonday dreams.

As she dances about the sun.

And laugh as I pass in thunder.

 

 

 

)

With a sweet emotion;

?

If thou kiss not me?

 

(by William Blake)

 

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 watered it in fears,

Night and 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 veiled the pole;

In the morning glad I see

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

 

 

 

(by William Blake)

 

Ah Sunflower, weary of time,

the steps of the sun;

Seeking after that sweet golden clime

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 Sunflower wishes to go!

 

 

 

(by William Blake)

 

Never seek to tell thy love,

Love that never told can be;

For the gentle wind does move

Silently, invisibly.

 

I told my love, I told my love,

I told her all my heart;

Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,

did depart!

 

Soon as she was gone from me,

A traveler came by,

Silently, invisibly

He took her with a sigh

 

 

 

(by William Blake)

 

By happy silent moony beams

 

Hover o’er my happy child.

 

All the livelong night beguiles.

 

All the dovelike moans beguiles.

 

mother weep

 

Thy maker lay and wept for me

 

Heavenly face that smiles on thee,

 

Heaven & earth to peace beguiles.

 

 

My Pretty Rose Tree

 

A flower was offered 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 my pretty rose tree,

To tend her by day and by night;

But my rose turned away with jealousy,

And her thorns were my only delight

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