?PURGATORY~g(CAT!FISH)d~DIALOGUE? : On Another's Sorrow: The School Boy

Friday, September 5, 2014

On Another's Sorrow: The School Boy

On Another's Sorrow:

by

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!

     Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
'Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd!

     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 & 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 & 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 & gone
He doth sit by us and moan.

The School Boy

by

William Blake

I love to rise in a summer morn
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the sky-lark sings with me.
O! what sweet company.

     But to go to school in a summer morn,
O! it drives all joy away;
Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day
In sighing and dismay.

     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 thro' with the dreary shower.

     How can the bird that is born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing:'
Hear can a child, when fears annoy,
But droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring?

     O! father & mother, if buds are nip'd
And blossoms blown away,
And if the tender plants are strip'd
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and care's dismay,

     How shall the summer arise in joy,
Or the summer fruits appearr
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,
Or bless the mellowing year,
When the blasts of winter appear?

***

"Growing up, you weren't like other boys who played with toy guns, soldiers, trucks and cars, and things like that. Your favorite toy was a bucket and minnow net; always down in the creeks catching things."

~(My Mother)~

"I do feel bad about that.

Most everything I caught... died."

~(James E. Avery, DVM)~

About a copperhead I mentioned killing in my backyard, during another one of our many phone conversations between me, her gay son, here in Atlanta, Georgia and my mother still living same house I grew up my home town of Prescott, Arkansas.

"You should have seen that shovel. It was SMOKING by the time I done killing it!"

~(James E. Avery, DVM)~

"I'm surprised you killed it."

~(My Mother)~

"I own a home now...

with cats!

That's like having children of my own.

NOW...

I understand Lady MAcBeth"

~(James E. Avery, DVM)~

***

The Shepherd

by

William Blake

How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot!
From the morn to the evening he strays;
He shall follows his sheep all the day,
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.

For he hears the lamb's innocent call,
And he hears the ewe's tender reply;
He is watchful while they are in peace,
For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.

The Lamb

by

William Blake

Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life & bid thee feed,
By the stream & o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, wooly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb.
He is meek & he is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child & thou a lamb.
We are called by his name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!

Young Lambs

from

Mother Goose

Nursery Rhyme Treasury

If I'd as much money as I could tell,
I never would cry young lambs to sell.
Young lambs to sell, young lambs to sell,
I never would cry young lambs to sell.