THE TYGER BY WILLIAM BLAKE

THE TYGER BY WILLIAM BLAKE 

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 

In the forests 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, & what art, 

Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 

And when thy heart began to beat, 

What dread hand? & 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 water'd 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 

Songs of innocence, songs of experience, Man’s struggle with a Maker, who is at once benevolent, and also jealous, and tyrannical - these were his themes, portrayed deeply in layers of both innocence and experience, questioning, and expressing. He portrays, the bliss of innocence, and childhood, and he is obviously very critical of his age that bound man, and shackled his expression of joy. His themes are romantic, which means Man’s striving to break free, and the conflicts with both the Maker, and the society around him. Yet, his poems are supremely crafted and shows all these themes in profound perception and wholeness, revealing both the innocence and experience.

VOCATION BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE

VOCATION BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE

On your way to school or market you see many people at work. In pairs, discuss what you have noticed. Then read this poem. You may read it aloud with a partner, if you like.

When the gong sounds ten in the morning and

I walk to school by our lane,

Every day I meet the hawker crying, “Bangles,

crystal bangles!”

There is nothing to hurry him on, there is no

road he must take, no place he must go to, no

time when he must come home.

I wish I were a hawker, spending my day in

the road, crying, “Bangles, crystal bangles!”

When at four in the afternoon I come back from

the school,

I can see through the gate of that house the

gardener digging the ground.

He does what he likes with his spade, he soils

his clothes with dust, nobody takes him to

task, if he gets baked in the sun or gets wet.

I wish I were a gardener digging away at the

garden with nobody to stop me from digging.

Just as it gets dark in the evening and my

mother sends me to bed,

I can see through my open window the

watchman walking up and down.

The lane is dark and lonely, and the streetlamp stands like a giant with one red eye in

its head.

The watchman swings his lantern and walks

with his shadow at his side, and never once

goes to bed in his life.

I wish I were a watchman walking the street

all night, chasing the shadows with my

lantern.

WHEN EARTH'S LAST PICTURE IS PAINTED BY RUDYARD KIPLING

WHEN EARTH'S LAST PICTURE IS PAINTED BY RUDYARD KIPLING 

When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried, 

When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died, 

We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it - lie down for an aeon or two, 

Till the Master of All Good Workmen Shall put us to work anew. 

And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair; 

They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet's hair. 

They shall find real saints to draw from - Magdalene, Peter, and Paul; 

They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all! 

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame; 

And no one will work for the money, and no one will work for the fame, 

But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star, 

Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They are!