When the voices of children are heard on the green, and laughing is heard on the hill, my heart is at rest within my breast, and everything else is still.
Tyger Tyger, burning bright, in the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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.
My mother bore me in the southern wild, and I am black, but oh, my soul is white, white as an angel is the English child: but I am black as if bereaved of light.
Love seeketh not itself to please, nor for itself hath any care, but for another gives its ease, and builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.
Little Lamb, who made thee, dost thou know who made thee, gave thee life and bid thee feed. By the stream and o’er the mead; gave thee clothing of delight, softest clothing, wooly, bright.
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.
I have no name: I am but two days old. What shall I call thee? I happy am, Joy is my name. Sweet joy befall thee!