William Blake

The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies

No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.

Shame is Pride’s cloak.

The thankful receiver bears a plentiful harvest.

O Dagworth, France is sick! the very sky,
Tho’ sunshine light it, seems to me as pale
As the pale fainting man on his death-bed,
Whose face is shewn by light of sickly taper!
It makes me sad and sick at very heart,
Thousands must fall to-day!

The lineaments of Gratified Desire.

Pale is the morning cloud in his visage

instead of words harsh hissings

As I was walking among the fires of hell, delighted with the enjoyments of Genius; which to Angels look like torment and insanity.

And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.