WILLIAM BLAKE
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.
c 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.'
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��506 Love's Secret
rEVER 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.
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