WILLIAM BLAKE

Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath ; scatter thy pearls Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers ; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom ; and put Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head, Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.

��48?. Song

AylY silks and fine array,

• • • ' My smiles and languish'd air,

By Love are driven away ;

And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold :

O why to him was 't given, Whose heart is wintry cold ?

His breast is Love's all-worshipp'd tomb,

Where all Love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade,

Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made,

Let winds and tempests beat : Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay: True love doth pass away !

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