Poems by William Blake

Is this a holy thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land, --
Babes reduced to misery,
Fed wit...

Pity would be no more
If we did not make somebody poor,
And Mercy no more could be
If all wer...

"I have no name;
I am but two days old."
What shall I call thee?
"I happy am,
Joy is my nam...

My mother groaned, my father wept:
Into the dangerous world I leapt,
Helpless, naked, pipi...

Little Lamb, who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
...

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:
While the Lily white...

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but oh my soul is white!
White as an ...

The little boy lost in the lonely fen,
Led by the wandering light,
Began to cry, but God, e...

"Nought loves another as itself,
Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to thought
A g...

"Father, father, where are you going?
Oh do not walk so fast!
Speak, father, speak to your ...