William Blake was an English poet, painter and printmaker.
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 groves,
Where flocks have took delight.
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves
The feet of angels bright; Unseen they pour blessing, And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest,
Where birds are covered 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 Is 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, washed in life's river, My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold As I guard o'er the fold.'