Thursday, March 27, 2014

Poems of William Blake


   How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot!
   From the morn to the evening he stays;
   He shall follow his sheep all the day,
   And his tongue shall be filled with praise.

   For he hears the lambs' innocent call,
   And he hears the ewes' tender reply;
   He is watching while they are in peace,
   For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.


   The sun does arise,
   And make happy the skies;
   The merry bells ring
   To welcome the Spring;
   The skylark and thrush,
   The birds of the bush,
   Sing louder around
   To the bells' cheerful sound;
   While our sports shall be seen
   On the echoing Green.

   Old John, with white hair,
   Does laugh away care,
   Sitting under the oak,
   Among the old folk.
   They laugh at our play,
   And soon they all say,
   "Such, such were the joys
   When we all--girls and boys--
   In our youth-time were seen
   On the echoing Green."

   Till the little ones, weary,
   No more can be merry:
   The sun does descend,
   And our sports have an end.
   Round the laps of their mothers
   Many sisters and brothers,
   Like birds in their nest,
   Are ready for rest,
   And sport no more seen
   On the darkening green.


   Little Lamb, who made thee
   Dost thou know who made thee,
   Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
   By the stream and o'er the mead;
   Gave thee clothing of delight,
   Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
   Gave thee such a tender voice,
   Making all the vales rejoice?
   Little Lamb, who made thee?
   Dost thou know who made thee?

   Little Lamb, I'll tell thee;
   Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:
   He is called by thy name,
   For He calls Himself a Lamb
   He is meek, and He is mild,
   He became a little child.
   I a child, and thou a lamb,
   We are called by His name.
   Little Lamb, God bless thee!
   Little Lamb, God bless thee!


   My mother bore me in the southern wild,
   And I  am black, but oh my soul is white!
   White as 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,
   She took me on her lap and kissed me,
   And, pointed to the east, began to say:

   "Look on the rising sun: there God does live,
   And gives His light, and gives His heat away,
   And 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
   And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
   Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

   "For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,
   The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,
   Saying, 'Come out from the grove, my love and care
   And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice',"

   Thus did my mother say, and kissed 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

   I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
   To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
   And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
   And be like him, and he will then love me.


   Merry, merry sparrow!
   Under leaves so green
   A happy blossom
   Sees you, swift as arrow,
   Seek your cradle narrow,
   Near my bosom.
   Pretty, pretty robin!
   Under leaves so green
   A happy blossom
   Hears you sobbing, sobbing,
   Pretty, pretty robin,
   Near my bosom.


   When my mother died I was very young,
   And my father sold me while yet my tongue
   Could scarcely cry "Weep! weep! weep! weep!"
   So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

   There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
   That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said,
   "Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare,
   You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair."

   And so he was quiet, and that very night,
   As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!--
   That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
   Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

   And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
   And he opened the coffins, and let them all free;
   Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run,
   And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

   Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
   They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;
   And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
   He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.

   And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
   And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
   Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
   So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Tybee Island

Tybee Island
By Anonymous, Stone Mountain, GA

The waves crash onto the shore
A shore that goes on forever
The tides uncover the jewels of the sea
A sea that is full of wonder
The callus shells and petrified sharks teeth found under the gritty sand beneath my shoes
All the hidden treasures appear into sight

The gray, overcast sky hovers over me like a blanket that stretches for miles
The sun peers through the clouds, illuminating a reflection onto the waves
All I see are the colors of nature surrounding me

Seagull chirps fill the air with rhythmic tones
Rhythms that bring me to peace
Wind tussles my hair, leaving it in an unruly mess
The cold wind bites through my jacket, while I feel the Atlantic breezes roll in

Serenity of the beach washes away troubles in life
Peaceful feelings rush over me, as I inhale happiness and exhale stress