Tyger, Tyger burning bright
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye
could frame thy fearful symmetry
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 feet?
When the stars threw down their
spears
And watered heaven with their
tears
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make
thee?
William Blake |
