No real Style of Colouring ever appears

More poems by William Blake

• The Tiger

  Tiger, tiger, burning bright
  In the forests of the night,
  What immortal hand or eye …

• The Tyger

  Tyger Tyger. burning bright,
  In the forests of the night;
  What immortal hand or eye. …

• The Little Black Boy

  My mother bore me in the southern wild,
  And I am black, but O, my soul is white!
  White as an angel is the English child, …

• The Garden of Love

  I laid me down upon a bank,
  Where Love lay sleeping;
  I heard among the rushes dank …

All poems by William Blake →