And I made a rural pen,
And I staind the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
may joy to hear.
MY mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O, my soul is white !
an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
me on her lap and kissàed me,
And, pointing to the East, began to say:
Look at the rising sun: there God does live,
And gives His light, and gives His heat away,
flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
For when our souls have learnd the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His
Saying, Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.
Thus did my mother say, and kissàed me,
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black
and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,
Ill shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Fathers knee;
And then Ill
stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.
HEAR the voice of the Bard,
Who present, past, and future, sees;
Whose ears have heard
That walkd among the ancient trees;
Calling the lapsàed soul,
And weeping in the evening dew;
That might control
The starry pole,
fallen, fallen light renew !
O Earth, O Earth, return !
Arise from out the dewy grass !
Night is worn,
And the morn
from the slumbrous mass.
Turn away no more;
Why wilt thou turn away?
The starry floor,
The watery shore,
Is given thee
till the break of day.
TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
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? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
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