A Poison Tree

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 watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned 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 veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Una imagen divina

Cruelty has a Human Heart,

(La crueldad tiene un corazón humano)

And Jealousy a Human Face;

(Y la envidia, un rostro humano)

Terror the Human Form Divine,

(El terror, la forma humana divina)

and Secrecy  the Human Dress.

(y el secreto, el traje humano)

The Human Dress is forged Iron

(El traje humano es hierro forjado)

The Human Form a fiery Forge,

(El rostro humano, una furiosa fragua)

The Human Face a Furnace seal'd,

(El rostro humano, un horno sellado)

The Human Heart its Hungry Gorge.

(El corazón humano, su hambriento barranco)

                                 William Blake

Traducción: Ernesto G.

The Sick Rose

Foto de Gordon Thye


O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the hollowing storm:

Has found out thy bed
of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

William Blake

The Tiger

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forest of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And What shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its 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?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake

The Fly

Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

William Blake