Αποσπάσματα από το «Τραγούδια της αθωότητας και της πείρας»

Μπορεί ο δημιουργός του πιο ήμερου πλάσματος να έφτιαξε και το πιο άγριο;

What the hammer? what the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? what dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?When the stars threw down their spears,And watered heaven with their tears,Did He smile His work to see?Did He who made the lamb make thee?Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Περπατάς σε μια πόλη όπου κάθε πρόσωπο κουβαλά το ίδιο σημάδι.

I wander through each chartered street,Near where the chartered Thames does flow,A mark in every face I meet,Marks of weakness, marks of woe.In every cry of every man,In every infant’s cry of fear,In every voice, in every ban,The mind-forged manacles I hear:How the chimney-sweeper’s cryEvery blackening church appals,And the hapless soldier’s sighRuns in blood down palace-walls.

Τι παθαίνει ο θυμός που αποφασίζεις να μην αναφέρεις;

I was angry with my friend:I told my wrath, my wrath did end.I was angry with my foe:I told it not, my wrath did grow.And I watered it in fearsNight and morning with my tears,And I sunnèd it with smilesAnd with soft deceitful wiles.

Επιστρέφει εκεί που έπαιζε και βρίσκει ένα κτίσμα.

I went to the Garden of Love,And saw what I never had seen;A Chapel was built in the midst,Where I used to play on the green.And the gates of this Chapel were shut,And ‘Thou shalt not’ writ over the door;So I turned to the Garden of LoveThat so many sweet flowers bore.And I saw it was filled with graves,And tombstones where flowers should be;And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,And binding with briars my joys and desires.

Ένα απρόσεκτο χτύπημα σε μια μύγα γίνεται ερώτημα για τη δική σου ζωή.

Little Fly,Thy summer’s playMy thoughtless handHas brushed away.Am not IA fly like thee?Or art not thouA man like me?For I dance,And drink, and sing,Till some blind handShall brush my wing.

Γιατί ένα πλάσμα που γεννήθηκε για να τραγουδά σωπαίνει όταν το κλείνουν μέσα;

Ah then at times I drooping sit,And spend many an anxious hour;Nor in my book can I take delight,Nor sit in learning’s bower,Worn through with the dreary shower.How can the bird that is born for joySit in a cage and sing?How can a child, when fears annoy,But droop his tender wing,And forget his youthful spring!

Το πρώτο παράπονο ενός ανθρώπου που μόλις ήρθε στον κόσμο.

My mother groaned, my father wept:Into the dangerous world I leapt,Helpless, naked, piping loud,Like a fiend hid in a cloud.Struggling in my father’s hands,Striving against my swaddling bands,Bound and weary, I thought bestTo sulk upon my mother’s breast.

Ένα αγόρι προτείνει να βάλουν την παμπ μέσα στην εκκλησία.

Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold;But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm.Besides, I can tell where I am used well;Such usage in heaven will never do well.But, if at the Church they would give us some ale,And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,We’d sing and we’d pray all the livelong day,Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.

Μια παραμάνα ακούει τα παιδιά να παίζουν και νιώθει κάτι άλλο από γαλήνη.

When the voices of children are heard on the green,And whisperings are in the dale,The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,My face turns green and pale.Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,And the dews of night arise;Your spring and your day are wasted in play,And your winter and night in disguise.

Η παράξενη στιγμή που ένα τόσο χαρούμενο τραγούδι κάνει κάποιον να κλάψει.

Piping down the valleys wild,Piping songs of pleasant glee,On a cloud I saw a child,And he laughing said to me:‘Pipe a song about a Lamb!’So I piped with merry cheer.‘Piper, pipe that song again.’So I piped: he wept to hear.‘Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;Sing thy songs of happy cheer!’So I sung the same again,While he wept with joy to hear.