Michael Sporn Animation – Splog

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– Well, it’s poetry time, boys and girls.

One of my most memorable trips to a museum was a visit to the Tate in London where I got to see the original paintings by William Blake. I’d been an admirer of his work ever since I’d learned about it. I have to admit I knew him as a poet before I realized he’d painted his work.

This is the 250th anniversary of his birth (Nov. 28, 1757) and many commemorative celebrations are planned. Let’s start things off by posting a couple of the works from The Songs of Innocence and Experience.

I’ve chosen Songs of Experience.
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. . . . . . . . The Sick Rose

. . . . . . . . O Rose Thou Art Sick.
. . . . . . . . The invisible worm,
. . . . . . . . That flies in the night
. . . . . . . . In the howling storm:

. . . . . . . . Has found out thy bed
. . . . . . . . Of crimson joy:
. . . . . . . . And his dark secret love
. . . . . . . . Does thy life destroy.
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. . . . . . . . The Little Fly
. . . . . . . . Little Fly
. . . . . . . . Thy summers play
. . . . . . . . My thoughtless hand
. . . . . . . . Has brush’d away.

. . . . . . . . Am not I
. . . . . . . . A fly like thee?
. . . . . . . . Or art not thou
. . . . . . . . A man like me?

. . . . . . . . For I dance
. . . . . . . . And drink and sing;
. . . . . . . . Till some blind hand
. . . . . . . . Shall brush my wing.

. . . . . . . . If thought is life
. . . . . . . .And strength and breath;
. . . . . . . . And the want
. . . . . . . . Of thought is death;

. . . . . . . . Then am I
. . . . . . . . A happy fly,
. . . . . . . . If I live
. . . . . . . . Or if I die..
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. . . . The Tyger

. . . .Tyger Tyger, burning bright.
. . . .In the forests of the night;
. . . .What immortal hand or eye
. . . .Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

. . . .In what distant deeps or skies.
. . . .Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
. . . .On what wings dare he aspire?
. . . .What the hand dare sieze the fire?
. . . .And what shoulder & what art,
. . . .Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
. . . .And when thy heart began to beat,
. . . .What dread hand? & what dread feet?

. . . .What the hammer? what the chain,
. . . .In what furnace was thy brain?
. . . .What the anvil? what dread grasp,
. . . .Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

. . . .When the stars threw down their spears
. . . .And water’d heaven with their tears;
. . . .Did he smile his work to see?
. . . .Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

. . . .Tyger Tyger, burning bright.
. . . .In the forests of the night;
. . . .What immortal hand or eye
. . . .Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

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