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1. I CURSE MY STARS IN BITTER GRIEF AND WOE SKIN
2. I CURSE MY STARS IN BITTER GRIEF AND WOE FULL
3. I CURSE MY STARS IN BITTER GRIEF AND WOE WINDOWS

On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest theīlue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew Thy bright torch of love thy radiant crown Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Is driv'n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla.

With storms!-till heaven smiles, and the monster He takes his seat upon the cliffs,-the marinerĬries in vain. Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life. He withers all in silence, and in his hand To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks:

I CURSE MY STARS IN BITTER GRIEF AND WOE SKIN

Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings In ribbed steel I dare not lift mine eyes,įor he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world. Rides heavy his storms are unchain'd, sheathed He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car." The north is thine there hast thou built thy darkĭeep-founded habitation. Hills fled from our sight but left his golden load. Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak The gardens, or sits singing in the trees." Of fruit and Joy, with pinions light, roves round The spirits of the air live in the smells Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,Īnd feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head. The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins īlossoms hang round the brows of Morning, andįlourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve, Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sitīeneath my shady roof there thou may'st rest,Īnd tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,Īnd all the daughters of the year shall dance! Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat. Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven, We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,

Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance: Our youth are bolder than the southern swains: Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire: Our valleys love the Summer in his pride. Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream: Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy Rode o'er the deep of heaven beside our springs With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.īeneath our thickest shades we oft have heard Oft pitched'st here thy golden tent, and oftīeneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer, Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee! Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head, O deck her forth with thy fair fingers pour Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee. Thy morn and evening breath scatter thy pearls Valleys hear all our longing eyes are turn'dĬome o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds The hills tell one another, and the listening

I CURSE MY STARS IN BITTER GRIEF AND WOE FULL

Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

I CURSE MY STARS IN BITTER GRIEF AND WOE WINDOWS

Through the clear windows of the morning, turn EPIGRAMS AND VERSES CONCERNING SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS LINES FOR THE ILLUSTRATIONS TO GRAY'S POEMSĭEDICATION OF THE ILLUSTRATIONS TO BLAIR'S GRAVE POEMS WRITTEN IN A COPY OF POETICAL SKETCHES The Garden of LoveI laid me down upon a bankWhere Love lay sleepingI heard among the rushes dankWeeping, weepingThen I went to the heath and the wildTo the thistles and thorns of the wasteAnd they told me how they were beguiledDriven out, and compelled to the chasteI went to the Garden of LoveAnd saw what I never had seenA Chapel was built in the midstWhere I used to play on the greenAnd the gates of this Chapel were shutAnd "Thou shalt not," writ over the doorSo I turned to the Garden of LoveThat so many sweet flowers boreAnd I saw it was filled with gravesAnd tombstones where flowers should beAnd priests in black gowns were walking their roundsAnd binding with briars my joys and desires LondonI wander through each chartered street,Near where the chartered 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-forged manacles I hear.How the chimney-sweeper’s cryEvery blackening church appalls And the hapless soldier’s sighRuns in blood down palace-walls.But most, through midnight streets I hearHow the youthful harlot’s curseBlasts the new-born infant’s tear,And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse. As they are well out of copyright, I will include a couple of them here. They are darker and more critical of society, human nature and the Church than the Songs of Innocence. My favourite poems are in Songs of Experience. This book contains Songs of Innocence and of Experience, followed by an Appendix containing A Divine Image and The Book of Thel.