WILLIAM BLAKE

THE TIGER

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What Immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burned that fire within thine eyes?
On what wings dared he aspire?

With what hand dared seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

When the heart began to beat,

What dread hand formed thy dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain,

Knit thy strength and forged thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dared thy deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears And watered 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

Dared frame thy fearful symmetry?

FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON

THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES

THE night has a thousand eyes,

The day but one;

Yet the light of the whole world dies

With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one;

Yet the light of a whole life dies

When love is done.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE

WHEN OUR TWO SOULS

WHEN our two souls stand up erect and strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire
At either curved point, what bitter wrong

Can the earth do to us, that we should not long
Be here contented? Think. In mounting higher,
The angels would press on us, and aspire
To drop some golden orb of perfect song

Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay

Rather on earth, Beloved, where the unfit Contrarious moods of men recoil away

And isolate pure spirits, and permit

A place to stand and love in for a day,

With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.

HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.