Songs of Experience
by William Blake
The Little Girl Lost
In futurity
I prophetic see,
That the earth from sleep,
(Grave the sentence deep)
5 Shall arise and seek 5
For her maker meek:
And the desart wild
Become a garden mild.
In the southern clime,
10 Where the summers prime,
Never fades away;
Lovely Lyca lay.
Seven summers old
Lovely Lyca told,
15 She had wanderd long,
Hearing wild birds song.
Sweet sleep come to me
Underneath this tree;
Do father, mother weep.—
20 Where can Lyca sleep.
Lost in desart wild
Is your little child.
How can Lyca sleep,
If her mother weep.
25 If her heart does ake,
Then let Lyca wake;
If my mother sleep,
Lyca shall not weep.
Frowning frowning night,
30 O'er this desart bright,
Let thy moon arise,
While I close my eyes.
Sleeping Lyca lay;
While the beasts of prey,
35 Come from caverns deep,
View'd the maid asleep
The kingly lion stood
And the virgin view'd,
Then he gambold round
40 O'er the hallowd ground;
Leopards, tygers play,
Round her as she lay;
While the lion old,
Bow'd his mane of gold.
45 And her bosom lick,
And upon her neck,
From his eyes of flame,
Ruby tears there came;
While the lioness,
50 Loos'd her slender dress,
And naked they convey'd
To caves the sleeping maid.
Songs of Experience
by William Blake
A Little GIRL Lost
Children of the future Age,
Reading this indignant page;
Know that in a former time.
Love! sweet Love! was thought a crime.
5 In the Age of Gold,
Free from winters cold:
Youth and maiden bright,
To the holy light,
Naked in the sunny beams delight.
10 Once a youthful pair
Fill'd with softest care:
Met in garden bright,
Where the holy light,
Had just removd the curtains of the night.
15 There in rising day,
On the grass they play:
Parents were afar:
Strangers came not near:
And the maiden soon forgot her fear.
20 Tired with kisses sweet
They agree to meet,
When the silent sleep
Waves o'er heavens deep;
And the weary tired wanderers weep.
25 To her father white
Came the maiden bright:
But his loving look,
Like the holy book,
All her tender limbs with terror shook.
30 Ona! pale and weak!
To thy father speak:
O the trembling fear!
O the dismal care!
That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair
