William+Blake

﻿ William Blake

Facts
 * Was born in London on November 28, 1757
 * He was born in his fathers Hoisery Shop at 28 Broad Street, Golden Square
 * Supposedly William wrote 173 poems in all
 * William was an English poet,engraver,and and painter
 * Blake was apprenticed to James Basire
 * He became a professional engraver at 21 years of age
 * Was the most respected artist in London
 * William is considered one the greatest viosnary poets of the Enlgish language
 * One of William's most famous quotes is "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."
 * Was 69 years old when he died.
 * He was buried at Bunhill, London
 * Died of Biliary Cirrhosis.
 * Had 6 siblings
 * 2 died in Infancy
 * <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Married Catherine Boucher at 25
 * <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Only lived 3 years outside of London
 * <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Considered mad by many people
 * <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">On October 8, 1779 he became a student at the Royal Academy.
 * <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Died August 12,1827

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">(Ross, David. "William Blake Biography." //UK Travel and Heritage - Britain Express UK Travel Guide//. Britain Express. Web. 24 Jan. 2011. <http://www.britainexpress.com/History/bio/blake.htm>.)This is only citating some of the info here. I am not sure about the citations of my partners. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Many Authors, "William Blake"//Wikipedia//, January 22, 2011, Web. January 25, 2011. <[].>.

This is the whole "The Tyger" By William Blake

<span style="font: 12px/19px Helvetica; margin: 0px;">William Blake was such a great artist one art critic proclaimed him as the best artist <span style="font: 12px/19px Helvetica; margin: 0px;">Britain has ever produced.<span style="font: 12px/19px Helvetica; margin: 0px;">This is the one of many portraits he drew at the top.

"William Blake: Poems." //Poetry Archive | Poems//. Poetry-Archive.com, 2002. Web. 21 Jan. 2011. [].

CRADLE SONG By: William Blake (1757-1827) SLEEP, sleep, beauty bright, Dreaming in the joys of night; Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep. Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles. As thy softest limbs I feel, Smiles as of the morning steal O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast Where thy little heart doth rest. O the cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep! When thy little heart doth wake, Then the dreadful night shall break.

HEAR THE VOICE By: William Blake (1757-1827) HEAR the voice of the Bard, Who present, past, and future, sees; Whose ears have heard The Holy Word That walk'd among the ancient trees; Calling the lapsèd soul, And weeping in the evening dew; That might control The starry pole, And fallen, fallen light renew! 'O Earth, O Earth, return! Arise from out the dewy grass! Night is worn, And the morn Rises 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.''

JERUSALEM (from 'Milton') By: William Blake (1757-1827) AND did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen? And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark Satanic Mills? Bring me my bow of burning gold! Bring me my arrows of desire! Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire! I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, Till we have built Jerusalem In England's green and pleasant land.

THE LITTLE BLACK BOY By: William Blake (1757-1827) My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O, 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 kissèd 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, 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 Are 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 kissèd 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.

LOVE'S SECRET By: William Blake (1757-1827) NEVER seek to tell thy love, Love that never told can be; For the gentle wind doth move Silently, invisibly. I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart, Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears. Ah! she did depart! Soon after she was gone from me, A traveller came by, Silently, invisibly: He took her with a sigh.

MAD SONG By: William Blake (1757-1827)THE wild winds weep, And the night is a-cold; Come hither, Sleep, And my griefs enfold! . . . But lo! the morning peeps Over the eastern steeps, And the rustling beds of dawn The earth do scorn. Lo! to the vault Of pavèd heaven, With sorrow fraught, My notes are driven: They strike the ear of Night, Make weak the eyes of Day; They make mad the roaring winds, And with the tempests play, Like a fiend in a cloud, With howling woe After night I do crowd And with night will go; I turn my back to the east From whence comforts have increased; For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain.

NIGHT By: William Blake (1757-1827) THE sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest. And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower In heaven's high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell, green fields and happy grove, Where flocks have took delight: Where lambs have nibbled, silent move The feet of angels bright; Unseen they pour blessing And joy without ceasing On each bud and blossom, On each sleeping bosom. They look in every thoughtless nest Where birds are cover'd warm; They visit caves of every beast, to keep them all from harm: If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed. When wolves and tigers howl for prey, They pitying stand and weep, Seeking to drive their thirst away And keep them from the sheep. But, if they rush dreadful, The angels, most heedful, Receive each mild spirit, New worlds to inherit. And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold: And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold: Saying, 'Wrath by His meekness, And, by His health, sickness, Are driven away From our immortal day. 'And now beside thee, bleating lamb, I can lie down and sleep, Or think on Him who bore thy name, Graze after thee, and weep. For, wash'd in life's river, My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold As I guard o'er the fold.'

A POISON TREE By: William Blake (1757-1827) I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I watered it in fears, Night and morning with my tears; And I sunnèd it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright; And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine, And into my garden stole, When the night had veiled the pole: In the morning glad I see My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

THE SICK ROSE By: William Blake (1757-1827) 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.

SONGS OF INNOCENCE By: William Blake (1757-1827) PIPING down the valleys wild, Piping songs of peasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he, laughing, said to me: 'Pipe a song about a lamb!' So I piped with merry cheer. 'Piper, pipe that song again;' So I piped: he wept to hear. 'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer!' So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear. 'Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read.' So he vanished from my sight; And I plucked a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.

THE TYGER By: William Blake (1757-1827) TIGER, tiger, 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 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 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? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

TO SPRING By: William Blake (1757-1827) THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down Through the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring! The hills tell one another, and the listening Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth And let thy holy feet visit our clime! Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee. O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head, Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.

TO THE EVENING STAR By: William Blake (1757-1827) THOU fair-hair'd angel of the evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed! Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest the Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon, Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide, And then the lion glares through the dun forest: The fleeces of our flocks are cover'd with Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence!

TO THE MUSES By: William Blake (1757-1827) WHETHER on Ida's shady brow Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the Sun, that now From ancient melody have ceased; Whether in heaven ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air Where the melodious winds have birth; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove; Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry; How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoy'd in you! The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forced, the notes are few.