|
Анекдоты, стихи, загадки, поговорки, считалки
Главная » 2010 » Сентябрь » 30
THE LAMB by William Blake Little Lamb who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Gave thee life & bid thee feed, By the stream & o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing wooly bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice: Little Lamb who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Little Ldmb I'll tell thee, Little Lamb I'll tell thee; He is called by thy name, For he calls himself a Lamb: He is meek & he is mild, He became a little child: I a child & thou a lamb, We are called by his name. Little Lamb God bless thee, Little Lamb God bless thee.
|
LAUGHING SONG by William Blake When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy And the dimpling stream runs laughing by, When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of it. When the meadows laugh with lively green And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene, When Mary and Susan and Emily, With their sweet round mouths sing Ha, Ha, He. When the painted birds laugh in the shade Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread Come live & be merry and join with me, To sing the sweet chorus of Ha, Ha, He.
|
A CRADLE SONG by William Blake Sweet dreams form a shade, O'er my lovely infants head. Sweet dreams of pleasant streams, By happy silent moony beams Sweet sleep with soft down, Weave thy brows an infant crown. Sweet sleep Angel mild, Hover o'er my happy child. Sweet smiles in the night, Hover over my delight. Sweet smiles Mothers smiles All the livelong night beguiles. Sweet moans, dovelike sighs, Chase not slumber from thy eyes, Sweet moans, sweeter smiles, All the dovelike moans beguiles. Sleep sleep happy child. All creation slept and smil'd. Sleep sleep, happy sleep, While o'er thee thy mother weep Sweet babe in thy face, Holy image I can trace. Sweet babe once like thee, Thy maker lay and wept for me Wept for me for thee for all, When he was an infant small. Thou his image ever see.
...
Читать дальше »
|
THE DIVINE IMAGE by William Blake To Mercy Pity Peace and Love, All pray in their distress: And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness. For Mercy Pity Peace and Love, Is God our father dear: And Mercy Pity Peace and Love, Is Man his child and care. For Mercy has a human heart Pity, a human face: And Love, the human form divine, Ahd Peace, the human dress. Then every man of every clime, That prays in his distress, Prays to the human form divine Love Mercy Pity Peace. And all must love the human form, In heathen, turk or jew. Where Mercy, Love & Pity dwell, There God is dwelling too.
|
NIGHT by William Blake The sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine, The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine, The moon like a flower, In heavens high bower; With silent delight, Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell green fields and happy groves, Where flocks have took delight; Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright; Unseen they pour blessing, And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom. They look in every thoughtless nest, Where birds are coverd warm; They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm: If they see any weeping, That should have been sleeping They pour sleep on their head And sit down by their bed. When wolves and tygers howl for prey They pitying stand and weep; Se
...
Читать дальше »
|
SPRING by William Blake Sound the Flute! Now it's mute. Birds delight Day and Night. Nightingale In the dale Lark in Sky Merrily Merrily Merrily to welcome in the Year Little Boy Full of joy. Little Girl Sweet and small. Cock does crow So do you. Merry voice Infant noise Merrily Merrily to welcome in the Year Little Lamb Here I am, Come and lick My white neck. Let me pull Your soft Wool. Let me kiss Your soft face. Merrily Merrily we welcome in the Year
|
NURSE'S SONG by William Blake When the voices of children are heard on the green And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast And everything else is still Then come home my children, the sun is gone down And the dews of night arise Come come leave off play, and let us away Till the morning appears in the skies No no let us play, for it is yet day And we cannot go to sleep Besides in the sky, the little birds fly And the hills are all coverd with sheep Well well go & play till the light fades away And then go home to bed The little ones leaped & shouted & laugh'd And all the hills ecchoed
|
INFANT JOY by William Blake I have no name I am but two days old. - What shall I call thee? I happy am Joy is my name, - Sweet joy befall thee! Pretty joy! Sweet joy but two days old. Sweet joy I call thee: Thou dost smile. I sing the while Sweet joy befall thee.
|
A DREAM by William Blake Once a dream did weave a shade, O'er my Angel-guarded bed, That an Emmet lost it's way Where on grass methought I lay. Troubled wilderd and folorn Dark benighted travel-worn, Over many a tangled spray, All heart-broke I heard her say. O my children! do they cry, Do they hear their father sigh. Now they look abroad to see, Now return and weep for me. Pitying I drop'd a tear: But I saw a glow-worm near: Who replied. What wailing wight Calls the watchman of the night. I am set to light the ground, While the beetle goes his round: Follow now the beetles hum, Little wanderer hie thee home.
|
ON ANOTHERS SORROW by William Blake 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
...
Читать дальше »
|
THE CLOD & THE PEBBLE by William Blake 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.
|
HOLY THURSDAY by William Blake 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.
|
THE LITTLE GIRL FOUND by William Blake 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
...
Читать дальше »
|
THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER by William Blake 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.
|
NURSES SONG by William Blake 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.
|
THE SICK ROSE by William Blake 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.
|
MY PRETTY ROSE TREE by William Blake 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.
|
АН! SUN-FLOWER by William Blake 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.
|
THE GARDEN OF LOVE by William Blake 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.
|
THE LITTLE VAGABOND by William Blake 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.
|
THE HUMAN ABSTRACT by William Blake 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
|
INFANT SORROW by William Blake 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.
|
A POISON TREE 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 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.
|
TO TIRZAH by William Blake 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?
|
THE SCHOOL-BOY by William Blake 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,
...
Читать дальше »
|
THE VOICE OF THE ANCIENT BARD by William Blake 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!
|
THE MENTAL TRAVELLER by William Blake I traveli'd thro' a land of men, A land of men and women too; And heard and saw such dreadful things As cold earth-wanderers never knew. For there the Babe is born in joy That was begotten in dire woe; Just as we reap in joy the fruit Which we in bitter tears did sow. And if the Babe is born a boy He's given to a Woman Old, Who nails him down upon a rock, Catches his shrieks in cups of gold. She binds iron thorns around his head, She pierces both his hands and feet, She cuts his heart out at his side, To make it feel both cold and heat. Her fingers number every nerve, Just as a miser counts his gold; She lives upon his shrieks and cries, And she grows young as he grows old. Till he becomes a bleeding Youth, And she becomes a Virgin bright; Then he rends up his ma
...
Читать дальше »
|
Riches by William Blake 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.
|
The Tyger by William Blake Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the Fire? And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
|
London by William Blake 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 Infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear. How the chimney-sweeper's cry Every black'ning church appals; And the hapless soldiers sigh Runs in blood down palace walls. But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful harlot's curse Blasts the new-born infant's tear, And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.
|
The Lily by William Blake The modest Rose puts forth a thorn, The humble Sheep a threat'ning horn; While the Lily white shall in love delight, Nor a thorn, nor a threat, stain her beauty bright.
|
The Fly by William Blake Little Fly, Thy summer's play My thoughtless hand Has brush'd away. Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me? For I dance, And drink, and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing. If thought is life And strength and breath, And the want Of thought is death; Then am I A happy fly, If I live Or if I die.
|
|
|
|