Tiger, tiger, burning bright
 In the forests of the night,
 What immortal hand or eye
 Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

 My pretty rose tree

 A flower was offered to me,
   Such a flower as May never bore;
 But I said “I’ve a pretty rose tree,”
   And I passed the sweet flower o’er.

 Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
   To tend her by day and by night;
 But my rose turned away with jealousy,
   And her thorns were my only delight.

 Ah Sunflower

 Ah Sunflower, weary of time,
   Who countest the steps of the sun;
 Seeking after that sweet golden clime
   Where the traveller’s journey is done;

 Where the Youth pined away with desire,
   And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
 Arise from their graves, and aspire
   Where my Sunflower wishes to go!

 The lily

 The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
 The humble sheep a threat’ning horn: 
 While the Lily white shall in love delight,
 Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

 The garden of love

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

 Then I went to the heath and the wild,
   To the thistles and thorns of the waste;
 And they told me how they were beguiled,
   Driven out, and compelled to the chaste.

 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 Love
   That 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.

 The little vagabond

 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;
 The poor parsons with wind like a blown bladder swell.

 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.

 Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
 And we’d be as happy as birds in the spring;
 And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
 Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.

 And God, like a father, rejoicing to see
 His children as pleasant and happy as he,
 Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
 But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.

 London

 I wandered through each chartered street,