The Lily, by William Blake
The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humbl...
The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humbl...
The sun descending in the west,
The evening s...
When the voices of children are heard on the gr...
How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot!
From th...
Do you not see the waters of the Yellow River
...
Alexis, beauteous, and his lord's delight,
...
This closing effort, Arethusa, aid;
A few b...
Whence joyful harvests spring, what heav'nly s...
Thus far the tilth of fields and stars of heave...
Thee too, great Pales, will I hymn, and thee...
Of air-born honey, gift of heaven, I now
Tak...
Daphnis beneath a whispering holm reclined,
A...
Oh stay at home, my lad, and plough
The land...
The pure, bright heaven still yearns to blend ...
Come on then, ye, dwellers by Nature in darkn...
To mortal men Peace giveth these good things:
...
From desert to city, already forgotten new arr...
For many years my life work ply,
And many mus...
A realm of dreams is that sublimest chasm
Clef...
There will be rose and rhododendron
When you a...
Down, you mongrel, Death!
Back into your ken...
APRIL this year, not otherwise
Than April of ...
The farm--a bit of heaven--
Where nature stopp...
Columbia, large-hearted and tender,
Too long...
From the Shahnameh There was a paladin, a Tur...