The Tigers Of Wrath Are

The Moon, Like A Flower In Heaven's High Bower, With Silent Delight Sits And Smiles On The Night.

How Have You Left The Ancient Love That Bards Of Old Enjoyed In You! The Languid Strings Do Scarcely Move! The Sound Is Forced, The Notes Are Few!

Rome & Greece Swept Art Into Their Maw & Destroy'd It; A Warlike State Never Can Produce Art. It Will Rob & Plunder & Accumulate Into One Place, & Translate & Copy & Buy & Sell & Criticize, But Not Make.

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 Turn'd To The Garden Of Love, That So Many Sweet Flowers Bore. And I Saw It Was Filled With Graves, And Tomb-stones Where Flowers Should Be: And Priests In Black Gowns, Were Walking Their Rounds, And Binding With Briars, My Joys & Desires.

Death Is Terrible, Tho' Borne On Angels' Wings!