Page:Poetical works of William Blake (Sampson, 1913).djvu/73

Song

With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage; 10
He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; ⁠
Then stretches out my golden wing, 15
And mocks my loss of liberty.

Song⁠
My silks and fine array,
My smiles and languish'd air,
By love are driv'n away;
And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave;5
Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heav'n
When springing buds unfold;
O why to him was't giv'n
Whose heart is wintry cold? 10
His breast is love's all-worshipp'd tomb,⁠
Where all love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade,
Bring me a winding-sheet;
When I my grave have made 15
Let winds and tempests beat:
Then down I'll lie as cold as clay.
True love doth pass away!