My Pretty Rose Tree and Other Poems by William Blake

My Pretty Rose Tree

A flower was offered 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 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.

Ah! Sunflower

Ah Sunflower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun:
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveler's 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 Sunflower wishes to go.

The Lily

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn:
The humble Sheep, a threatening horn:
While the Lily white, shall in Love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

The Garden of Love

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 tombstones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys and desires.

ALL OF THESE POEMS BY WILLIAM BLAKE ARE FROM 

SONGS OF EXPERIENCE

William Blake (1757-1827) was an English poet, painter, engraver, and mystic. His book of poems, Songs of Experience (1794), contains some of his most beloved poems, including "The Tyger."

HAPPY EASTER! HAPPY SPRING!

The Fairies - William Allingham

 

 

Up the airy mountain,

     Down the rushy glen,

We daren't go a-hunting

     For fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk,

     Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

     And white owl's feather!

 

Down along the rocky shore

Some make their home,

They live on crispy pancakes

Of yellow tide-foam;

Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain-lake,

With frogs for their watch-dogs,

All night awake.

 

High on the hill-top

The old King sits;

He is now so old and gray

He's nigh lost his wits.

With a bridge of white mist

Columbkill he crosses,

On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses;

Or going up with music

On cold starry nights,

To sup with the Queen

Of the gay Northern Lights.

 

They stole little Bridget

For seven years long;

When she came down again

Her friends were all gone.

They took her lightly back,

Between the night and morrow,

They thought that she was fast asleep,

But she was dead with sorrow.

 

They have kept her ever since

Deep within the lake,

On a bed of flag-leaves,

Watching till she wake.

 

By the craggy hill-side,

Through the mosses bare,

They have planted thorn-trees

For pleasure here and there.

Is any man so daring

As dig them up in spite,

He shall find their sharpest thorns

In his bed at night.

 

Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We daren't go a-hunting

For fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

 

 

 

William Allingham (1824 - 1889) was a popular Irish poet during the Victorian Era whose poem "The Fairies" became a childhood classic.

 

 



HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY!