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Auguries of Innocence (1863) written by William Blake

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Auguries of Innocence (1863) (Poem) written by William Blake
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Auguries of Innocence (Poem)

written by William Blake

1863
 
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To see a world in a grain of sand 
And a heaven in a wild flower, 
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, 
And eternity in an hour. 
 
A robin redbreast in a cage 
Puts all heaven in a rage. 
 
A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons 
Shudders hell thro' all its regions. 
A dog starv'd at his master's gate 
Predicts the ruin of the state. 
 
A horse misused upon the road 
Calls to heaven for human blood. 
Each outcry of the hunted hare 
A fibre from the brain does tear. 
 
A skylark wounded in the wing, 
A cherubim does cease to sing. 
The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight 
Does the rising sun affright. 
 
Every wolf's and lion's howl 
Raises from hell a human soul. 
 
The wild deer, wand'ring here and there, 
Keeps the human soul from care. 
The lamb misus'd breeds public strife, 
And yet forgives the butcher's knife. 
 
The bat that flits at close of eve 
Has left the brain that won't believe. 
The owl that calls upon the night 
Speaks the unbeliever's fright. 
 
He who shall hurt the little wren 
Shall never be belov'd by men. 
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd 
Shall never be by woman lov'd. 
 
The wanton boy that kills the fly 
Shall feel the spider's enmity. 
He who torments the chafer's sprite 
Weaves a bower in endless night. 
 
The caterpillar on the leaf 
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief. 
Kill not the moth nor butterfly, 
For the last judgement draweth nigh. 
 
He who shall train the horse to war 
Shall never pass the polar bar. 
The beggar's dog and widow's cat, 
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat. 
 
The gnat that sings his summer's song 
Poison gets from slander's tongue. 
The poison of the snake and newt 
Is the sweat of envy's foot. 
 
The poison of the honey bee 
Is the artist's jealousy. 
 
The prince's robes and beggar's rags 
Are toadstools on the miser's bags. 
A truth that's told with bad intent 
Beats all the lies you can invent. 
 
It is right it should be so; 
Man was made for joy and woe; 
And when this we rightly know, 
Thro' the world we safely go. 
 
Joy and woe are woven fine, 
A clothing for the soul divine. 
Under every grief and pine 
Runs a joy with silken twine. 
 
The babe is more than swaddling bands; 
Throughout all these human lands; 
Tools were made and born were hands, 
Every farmer understands. 
Every tear from every eye 
Becomes a babe in eternity; 
 
This is caught by females bright, 
And return'd to its own delight. 
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar, 
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore. 
 
The babe that weeps the rod beneath 
Writes revenge in realms of death. 
The beggar's rags, fluttering in air, 
Does to rags the heavens tear. 
 
The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun, 
Palsied strikes the summer's sun. 
The poor man's farthing is worth more 
Than all the gold on Afric's shore. 
 
One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands 
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands; 
Or, if protected from on high, 
Does that whole nation sell and buy. 
 
He who mocks the infant's faith 
Shall be mock'd in age and death. 
He who shall teach the child to doubt 
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out. 
 
He who respects the infant's faith 
Triumphs over hell and death. 
The child's toys and the old man's reasons 
Are the fruits of the two seasons. 
 
The questioner, who sits so sly, 
Shall never know how to reply. 
He who replies to words of doubt 
Doth put the light of knowledge out. 
 
The strongest poison ever known 
Came from Caesar's laurel crown. 
Nought can deform the human race 
Like to the armour's iron brace. 
 
When gold and gems adorn the plow, 
To peaceful arts shall envy bow. 
A riddle, or the cricket's cry, 
Is to doubt a fit reply. 
 
The emmet's inch and eagle's mile 
Make lame philosophy to smile. 
He who doubts from what he sees 
Will ne'er believe, do what you please. 
 
If the sun and moon should doubt, 
They'd immediately go out. 
To be in a passion you good may do, 
But no good if a passion is in you. 
 
The whore and gambler, by the state 
Licensed, build that nation's fate. 
The harlot's cry from street to street 
Shall weave old England's winding-sheet. 
 
The winner's shout, the loser's curse, 
Dance before dead England's hearse. 
 
Every night and every morn 
Some to misery are born, 
Every morn and every night 
Some are born to sweet delight. 
 
Some are born to sweet delight, 
Some are born to endless night. 
 
We are led to believe a lie 
When we see not thro' the eye, 
Which was born in a night to perish in a night, 
When the soul slept in beams of light. 
 
God appears, and God is light, 
To those poor souls who dwell in night; 
But does a human form display 
To those who dwell in realms of day.