Songs of innocence london

Only "Mind-forg'd manacles" and "How" and "Blasts" in lines are irregularly stressed. Lines 14 and 15 give irregular stress to the two words in order to further disturb the reader, leading up to the oxymoron of the "marriage hearse" in line The poet expresses his disdain for the urban sprawl of post-Industrial Revolution London in terms as harsh as his praise for nature and innocence are pleasant. It is as if a system has been created specifically to destroy all that is good in humankind, a theme Blake takes up in his later works.

Blake's critique is not aimed only at society or the system of the world, however. Only the third stanza directly addresses one group's oppression of another. Instead, much of the poem decries man's self-oppression. Shaw, J. Clarkson -- Edwin Grabhorn, gift from his father Dr J. Robertson -- [John Howell-Books , catalogue 34, no.

It and the subsequent color-printed and illuminated productions of his mystical and prophetic works -- from Thel to Jerusalem -- are indisputably the finest illustrated books in all of English literature. They are "livres d'artiste" avant la lettre , but fuse the content of text and pictures to a far greater degree. This extraordinary physical integration is achieved through relief etching of the copper plates, a process of Blake's own invention that combines two 15th-century techniques: xylography illustration and text on the same woodblock and metalcuts relief engraving.

Much of the desired artistic effect, however, needed to be accomplished by careful inking, printing, and watercoloring. How he managed all this and at the same time efficiently organized multiplication to publish commerical albeit small editions, is analyzed in fascinating and brilliant detail in Joseph Viscomi's monumental Blake and the Idea of the Book Princeton University Press, The designation "brown" is here used generically; the colors range to tints that have been variously described as golden-brown, orangish-brown, reddish brown, pale orange, raw sienna, yellow ochre, etc.

The later impressions are naturally without plates , but they include pl. Copy X of the green-ink impression survives with only 12 plates on 6 leaves; it was perhaps once complete. Berland copy J has 21 plates; Viscomi has demonstrated that 8 other plates from its run were used by Blake to make up Huntington copy E of the combined Songs of Innocence and Experience plts.

And her bosom lick, And upon her neck, From his eyes of flame, Ruby tears there came;. While the lioness Loosed her slender dress, And naked they conveyed To caves the sleeping maid. Tired and woe-begone, Hoarse with making moan, Arm in arm, seven days They traced the desert ways. Seven nights they sleep Among shadows deep, And dream they see their child Starved in desert wild.

Pale through pathless ways The fancied image strays, Famished, weeping, weak, With hollow piteous shriek. In his arms he bore Her, armed 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 stalked around,. Smelling to his prey; But their fears allay When he licks their hands, And silent by them stands.

They look upon his eyes, Filled with deep surprise; And wondering behold A spirit armed in gold. Gone was all their care. A little black thing among the snow, Crying! When the voices of children are heard on the green, And whisperings 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 and your day are wasted in play, And your winter and night in disguise.

O 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.

If I live, Or if I die. I dreamt a dream! What can it mean? So he took his wings, and fled; Then the morn blushed rosy red. I dried my tears, and armed my fears With ten thousand shields and spears.

Soon my Angel came again; I was armed, he came in vain; For the time of youth was fled, And grey hairs were on my head. Tiger, tiger, 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? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 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.

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! And I saw it was filled with graves, And tombstones where flowers should be; And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, And binding with briars my joys and desires. Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold; But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm. Besides, I can tell where I am used well; Such usage in heaven will never do well.

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, and give him both drink and apparel. I wander through each chartered street, Near where the chartered Thames does flow, A mark in every face I meet, Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

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 caterpillar and fly Feed on the Mystery. The gods of the earth and sea Sought through nature to find this tree, But their search was all in vain: There grows one in the human Brain.

My mother groaned, my father wept: Into the dangerous world I leapt, Helpless, naked, piping loud, Like a fiend hid in a cloud. 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 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.

I love you like the little bird That picks up crumbs around the door. The Priest sat by and heard the child; In trembling zeal he seized his hair, He led him by his little coat, And all admired his priestly care. And burned him in a holy place Where many had been burned before; The weeping parents wept in vain.