he vanished from my sight; And I plucked a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child
wrath did grow. And I watered it in fears Night and morning with my tears, And I sunned it with smiles And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and
(Music by Greg Brown / poem of William Blake) Ah, sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun; Seeking after that sweet golden clime
by Greg Brown / poem of William Blake) 'Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and
(Music by Greg Brown / poem of William Blake) "I have no name; I am but two days old." What shall I call thee? "I happy am, Joy is my name." Sweet joy
vanished from my sight; And I plucked a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may
(Music by Greg Brown / poem of William Blake) My mother groaned, my father wept: Into the dangerous world I leapt, Helpless, naked, piping loud, Like
(Music by Greg Brown / poem of William Blake) I wander through each chartered street, Near where the chartered Thames does flow, A mark in every face
on their head, And sit down by their bed. When wolves and tigers howl for prey, They pitying stand and weep; Seeking to drive their thirst away, And
(Music by Greg Brown / poem of William Blake) Can I see another's woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, And not seek for kind relief
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun. Then naked and white, all their bags left behind, They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind: And the angel
an Angel mild: Witless woe was ne'er beguiled! And I wept both night and day, And he wiped my tears away; And I wept both day and night, And hid from
Music by Greg Brown / poem of William Blake) The sun does arise, And make happy the skies; The merry bells ring To welcome the Spring; The skylark and
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
by Greg Brown / poem of William Blake) Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life, and bid thee feed, By the stream and
seize the fire? And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And, when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread
(Music by Greg Brown / poem of William Blake) Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold; But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm. Besides