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 heaven's high bower,
- With silent delight
- Sits and smiles on the night.
- Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
- Where flocks have took delight:
- Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
- The feet of angels bright;
- Unseen they pour blessing
- And joy without ceasing
- On each bud and blossom,
- On each sleeping bosom.
- They look in every thoughtless nest
- Where birds are cover'd 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 tigers howl for prey,
- They pitying stand and weep,
- Seeking to drive their thirst away
- And keep them from the sheep.
- But, if they rush dreadful,
- The angels, most heedful,
- Receive each mild spirit,
- New worlds to inherit.
- And there the lion's ruddy eyes
- Shall flow with tears of gold:
- And pitying the tender cries,
- And walking round the fold:
- Saying, 'Wrath by His meekness,
- And, by His health, sickness,
- Are driven away
- From our immortal day.
- 'And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
- I can lie down and sleep,
- Or think on Him who bore thy name,
- Graze after thee, and weep.
- For, wash'd in life's river,
- My bright mane for ever
- Shall shine like the gold
- As I guard o'er the fold.'
Source: The Portable Blake. Ed. Alfred Kazin. Viking Press, 1968. 92-94.