Poetry of the Week: Blake, Hope, and Cynicism

William Blake is one of the strangest of the Romantics. He's most known for his Songs of Innocence and Experience, but within that set is more known for "Tyger, Tyger! Burning bright..." than the collection as a whole. (I don't know how often people read The Tyger's companion piece The Lamb in conjunction?) The theme of the collection is, as you'd expect, a series of poems and songs that are soft and loving and speak of faith and angels, paired with a series of songs and poems that portray violence, cruelty, poverty, and the harsher sides of human nature. I recommend reading it, and giving some thought to his pairings and the changes between the two, though I don't personally know how I feel about them.

If you keep digging into his poetry, though, it helps to spend time learning about the vast and elaborate mythology he set up, describing a series of god-like beings based around aspects of Man and the struggles and wars between them. That's a woefully inadequate description, and again I don't know how I feel about his choices here, but they're fascinating. And illustrated with his own etchings and engravings. Perhaps one day I'll cover them here.

But this is all wildly off topic, and Blake isn't a Gothic poet anyway, so why are we here? We're here because when I think of dark poetry contrasting despair of human nature with the sweetness of love, faith, or innocence, I do still tend to think of Blake.  So have some darkness, and unlike his organization, we'll end on some light.


The Clod and The Pebble
"Love seeketh not itself to please, 
Nor for itself hath any care, 
But for another gives its ease, 
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair." 

So sung a little Clod of Clay 
Trodden with the cattle's feet, 
But a Pebble of the brook 
Warbled out these metres meet: 

"Love seeketh only self to please, 
To bind another to its delight, 
Joys in another's loss of ease, 
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite." 


The Human Abstract
Pity would be no more,
If we did not make somebody Poor:
And Mercy no more could be,
If all were as happy as we;

And mutual fear brings peace;
Till the selfish loves increase.
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care.

He sits down with holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears:
Then Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot.

Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head;
And the Catterpillar and Fly,
Feed on the Mystery.

And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat;
And the Raven his nest has made
In its thickest shade.

The Gods of the earth and sea
Sought thro' Nature to find this Tree
But their search was all in vain:
There grows one in the Human Brain


On Another's Sorrow
Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,        
And not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?        
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird’s grief and care,        
Hear the woes that infants bear,

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast;
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant’s tear;        

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

He doth give His joy to all;        
He becomes an infant small;
He becomes a man of woe;
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by;        
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

O! He gives to us His joy
That our grief He may destroy;
Till our grief is fled and gone        
He doth sit by us and moan.



The Night
The sun descending in the west,  
  The evening star does shine;  
The birds are silent in their nest.  
  And I must seek for mine.  
    The moon, like a flower        
    In heaven's high bower,  
    With silent delight  
    Sits and smiles on the night.  

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,  
  Where flocks have took delight:  
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move  
  The feet of angels bright;  
    Unseen they pour blessing  
    And joy without ceasing  
    On each bud and blossom,  
    And each sleeping bosom.  

They look in every thoughtless nest  
  Where birds are cover'd warm;  
They visit caves of every beast,  
  To keep them all from harm:  
    If they see any weeping  
    That should have been sleeping,  
    They pour sleep on their head,  
    And sit down by their bed.  

When wolves and tigers howl for prey,  
  They pitying stand and weep,  
Seeking to drive their thirst away  
  And keep them from the sheep.  
    But, if they rush dreadful,
    The angels, most heedful,  
    Receive each mild spirit,  
    New worlds to inherit.  

And there the lion's ruddy eyes  
  Shall flow with tears of gold:  
And pitying the tender cries,  
  And walking round the fold:  
    Saying, 'Wrath, by His meekness,  
    And, by His health, sickness,  
    Are driven away  
    From our immortal day.  

'And now beside thee, bleating lamb,  
  I can lie down and sleep,  
Or think on Him who bore thy name,  
  Graze after thee, and weep.  
    For, wash'd in life's river,  
    My bright mane for ever  
    Shall shine like the gold  
    As I guard o'er the fold.'