William Blake

To see a world in a grain of sand,  
And a heaven in a wild flower,  
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,  
And eternity in an hour.    
A robin redbreast in a cage  
Puts all heaven in a rage.    
A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons  
Shudders hell thro' all its regions.  
A dog starv'd at his master's gate  
Predicts the ruin of the state.    
A horse misused upon the road  
Calls to heaven for human blood.  
Each outcry of the hunted hare  
A fibre from the brain does tear.   
 A skylark wounded in the wing,  
A cherubim does cease to sing. 
 The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight  
Does the rising sun affright.    
Every wolf's and lion's howl  
Raises from hell a human soul.    
The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,  
Keeps the human soul from care.  
The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,  
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.    
The bat that flits at close of eve  
Has left the brain that won't believe. 
 The owl that calls upon the night  
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.    
He who shall hurt the little wren  
Shall never be belov'd by men.  
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd 
 Shall never be by woman lov'd.    
The wanton boy that kills the fly  
Shall feel the spider's enmity.  
He who torments the chafer's sprite 
 Weaves a bower in endless night.   
 The caterpillar on the leaf  
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.  
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,  
For the last judgement draweth nigh.   
 He who shall train the horse to war  
Shall never pass the polar bar.  
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,  
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.    
The gnat that sings his summer's song  
Poison gets from slander's tongue.  
The poison of the snake and newt  
Is the sweat of envy's foot.    
The poison of the honey bee  
Is the artist's jealousy.   
 The prince's robes and beggar's rags  
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.  
A truth that's told with bad intent  
Beats all the lies you can invent.    
It is right it should be so;  
Man was made for joy and woe;  
And when this we rightly know,  
Thro' the world we safely go.    
Joy and woe are woven fine,  
A clothing for the soul divine.  
Under every grief and pine  
Runs a joy with silken twine.    
The babe is more than swaddling bands; 
 Every farmer understands. 
 Every tear from every eye  
Becomes a babe in eternity;    
This is caught by females bright,  
And return'd to its own delight. 
 The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,  
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.    
The babe that weeps the rod beneath  
Writes revenge in realms of death.  
The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,  
Does to rags the heavens tear.    
The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun,  
Palsied strikes the summer's sun.  
The poor man's farthing is worth more 
 Than all the gold on Afric's shore.   
 One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands  
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands;  
Or, if protected from on high,  
Does that whole nation sell and buy.   
 He who mocks the infant's faith  
Shall be mock'd in age and death.  
He who shall teach the child to doubt  
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.    
He who respects the infant's faith  
Triumphs over hell and death. 
 The child's toys and the old man's reasons  
Are the fruits of the two seasons.    
The questioner, who sits so sly,  
Shall never know how to reply. 
 He who replies to words of doubt  
Doth put the light of knowledge out.   
 The strongest poison ever known  
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.  
Nought can deform the human race 
 Like to the armour's iron brace.   
 When gold and gems adorn the plow,  
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.  
A riddle, or the cricket's cry,  
Is to doubt a fit reply.   
 The emmet's inch and eagle's mile 
 Make lame philosophy to smile. 
 He who doubts from what he sees  
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.   
 If the sun and moon should doubt,  
They'd immediately go out.  
To be in a passion you good may do,  
But no good if a passion is in you.    
The whore and gambler, by the state  
Licensed, build that nation's fate.  
The harlot's cry from street to street  
Shall weave old England's winding-sheet.    
The winner's shout, the loser's curse, 
 Dance before dead England's hearse.    
Every night and every morn  
Some to misery are born,  
Every morn and every night  
Some are born to sweet delight.    
Some are born to sweet delight,  
Some are born to endless night.    
We are led to believe a lie  
When we see not thro' the eye,  
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,  
When the soul slept in beams of light.    
God appears, and God is light,  
To those poor souls who dwell in night;  
But does a human form display  
To those who dwell in realms of day.