“For I dance And drink and sing,Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing.If thought is lifeAnd strength and breathAnd the wantOf thought is deathThen am IA happy flyIf I liveOr if I die”

“Little FlyThy summers play,My thoughtless handHas brush'd away.Am not IA fly like thee?Or art not thouA man like me?For I dance And drink & sing: Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing. If thought is life And strength & breath: And the want Of thought is death; Then am I A happy fly, If I live, Or if I die”

“I have no nameI am but two days old.-What shall I call thee?I happy amJoy is my name,-Sweet joy befell thee!Pretty joy!Sweet joy but two days old.Sweet joy I call thee:Thou dost smile.I sing the whileSweet joy befell thee.- "Infant Joy”

“I will not cease from mental fightNor shall my sword sleep in my hand.”

“And did those feet in ancient timeWalk upon England's mountains green?And was the holy Lamb of GodOn England's pleasant pastures seen?And did the Countenance DivineShine forth upon our clouded hills?And was Jerusalem builded here,Among these dark Satanic Mills?Bring me my Bow of burning gold:Bring me my Arrows of desire:Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!Bring me my Chariot of fire!I will not cease from Mental Fight,Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand,Till we have built JerusalemIn England's green & pleasant Land.”

“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.And I water'd it in fears, Night & morning with my tears; And I sunnéd it with smiles And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright; And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine, And into my garden stole, When the night had veil'd the pole: In the morning glad I see My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree.”

“I am made to sow the thistle for wheat; the nettle for a nourishing daintyI have planted a false oath in the earth, it has brought forth a poison treeI have chosen the serpent for a councellor & the dog for a schoolmaster to my childrenI have blotted out from light & living the dove & the nightingaleAnd I have caused the earthworm to beg from door to door I have taught the thief a secret path into the house of the justI have taught pale artifice to spread his nets upon the morningMy heavens are brass my earth is iron my moon a clod of clayMy sun a pestilence burning at noon & a vapor of death in nightWhat is the price of Experience do men buy it for a song Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No it is bought with the priceOf all that a man hath his house his wife his childrenWisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buyAnd in the withered field where the farmer plows for bread in vainIt is an easy thing to triumph in the summers sun And in the vintage & to sing on the waggon loaded with cornIt is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflictedTo speak the laws of prudence to the houseless wandererTo listen to the hungry ravens cry in wintry seasonWhen the red blood is filled with wine & with the marrow of lambs It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elementsTo hear a dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughter house moanTo see a god on every wind & a blessing on every blastTo hear the sounds of love in the thunder storm that destroys our enemies houseTo rejoice in the blight that covers his field, & the sickness that cuts off his childrenWhile our olive & vine sing & laugh round our door & our children bring fruits and flowersThen the groans & the dolor are quite forgotten & the slave grinding at the millAnd the captive in chains & the poor in the prison, & the soldier in the fieldWhen the shattered bone hath laid him groaning among the happier deadIt is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity Thus could I sing & thus rejoice, but it is not so with me!”