Self-Portrait of William Blake

A great poet, a magnificent artist, a deep visionary—William Blake (1757-1827) was all of these. And one of the poems where the visionary is predominant is his “Auguries of Innocence” (ca. 1803).

Auguries of Innocence

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower 
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand 
And Eternity in an hour

A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage 
A Dove house fill’d with Doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thro’ all its regions 
A dog starv’d at his Masters Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State 
A Horse misus’d upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood 
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fibre from the Brain does tear 
A Skylark wounded in the wing 
A Cherubim does cease to sing 
The Game Cock clip’d & arm’d for fight
Does the Rising Sun affright 
Every Wolf’s & Lion’s howl
Raises from Hell a Human Soul 
The wild deer, wandring here & there 
Keeps the Human Soul from Care 
The Lamb misus’d breeds Public Strife
And yet forgives the Butchers knife 
The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that wont Believe
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbeliever’s fright
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be belov’d by Men 
He who the Ox to wrath has mov’d
Shall never be by Woman lov’d
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly
Shall feel the Spiders enmity 
He who torments the Chafer’s Sprite
Weaves a Bower in endless Night 
The Catterpiller on the Leaf
Repeats to thee thy Mother’s grief 
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly 
For the Last Judgment draweth nigh
He who shall train the Horse to War
Shall never pass the Polar Bar 
The Beggar’s Dog & Widow’s Cat 
Feed them & thou wilt grow fat 
The Gnat that sings his Summer’s Song
Poison gets from Slander’s tongue 
The poison of the Snake & Newt
Is the sweat of Envy’s Foot 
The poison of the Honey Bee
Is the Artist’s Jealousy
The Prince’s Robes & Beggar’s Rags
Are Toadstools on the Miser’s Bags 
A Truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent 
It is right it should be so 
Man was made for Joy & Woe 
And when this we rightly know 
Thro’ the World we safely go 
Joy & Woe are woven fine 
A Clothing for the soul divine 
Under every grief & pine
Runs a joy with silken twine 
The Babe is more than swadling Bands
Throughout all these Human Lands
Tools were made & Born were hands 
Every Farmer Understands
Every Tear from Every Eye
Becomes a Babe in Eternity 
This is caught by Females bright
And return’d to its own delight 
The Bleat the Bark Bellow & Roar 
Are Waves that Beat on Heaven’s Shore 
The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath
Writes Revenge in realms of Death 
The Beggar’s Rags fluttering in Air
Does to Rags the Heavens tear 
The Soldier arm’d with Sword & Gun 
Palsied strikes the Summer’s Sun
The poor Man’s Farthing is worth more
Than all the Gold on Afric’s Shore
One Mite wrung from the Labrer’s hands
Shall buy & sell the Miser’s Lands 
Or if protected from on high 
Does that whole Nation sell & buy 
He who mocks the Infant’s Faith
Shall be mock’d in Age & Death
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall ne’er get out 
He who respects the Infant’s faith
Triumphs over Hell & Death 
The Child’s Toys & the Old Man’s Reasons
Are the Fruits of the Two seasons 
The Questioner who sits so sly 
Shall never know how to Reply 
He who replies to words of Doubt
Doth put the Light of Knowledge out 
The Strongest Poison ever known
Came from Caesar’s Laurel Crown 
Nought can Deform the Human Race
Like to the Armour’s iron brace 
When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow
To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow 
A Riddle or the Crickets Cry
Is to Doubt a fit Reply 
The Emmet’s Inch & Eagle’s Mile
Make Lame Philosophy to smile 
He who Doubts from what he sees
Will ne’er Believe do what you Please 
If the Sun & Moon should Doubt 
They’d immediately Go out 
To be in a Passion you Good may Do 
But no Good if a Passion is in you 
The Whore & Gambler by the State
Licenc’d build that Nation’s Fate 
The Harlot’s cry from Street to Street 
Shall weave Old England’s winding Sheet 
The Winners Shout the Losers Curse 
Dance before dead England’s Hearse
Every Night & every Morn
Some to Misery are Born 
Every Morn and every Night
Some are Born to sweet delight 
Some are Born to sweet delight, 
Some are Born to Endless Night 
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro’ the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night 
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light 
God Appears & God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night 
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day