Just Curious

Songs of Innocence

William Blake (1757-1827) was one of the foremost Romantic poet in England as well as an accomplished engraver and painter, and political radical (a "republican", with lower-case "r", in 19th century England). I have just purchased a collection of his poetry and prose, edited by the Irish poet William Butler Yeats.

The Songs of Innocence and the Songs of Experience were the only ones I have read before: as a high-school junior who knew little about literature. Yet I was, even then, shaken by the rich texture and the dazzling colors of his works.

After not reading poetry for five years, I have decided to pick this old reading habit up again. Went to Borders, and bought myself a copy of Blake's selected works.

It was not until now that I could genuinely appreciate William Blake, the man and his works. According to an English professor, reading Blake's poetry is like listening the Almighty One, speaking in a deep human voices, with all the gravity, antiquity, tenderness and love of a Creator, to his children. It was also now that I could understand the moral dimension of Blake's words.

It is noteworthy that Blake in fact created engravings as illustrations for his poems. One of my favorites is his engraving on Death on the Pale Horse. Other than the Songs of Innocence and Experience, published in the 1790s, he has also written a large number of poetic sketches, prophetic books, poetic elaborations on moral philosophy, and a large number of essays. Here's one good example: 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 filled?

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.

 

posted by James Chang @ 3:52 PM