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William Blake's "Songs of Innocence and of Experience" serves as a profound examination of the duality of the human condition, juxtaposing the pastoral simplicity and purity of childhood innocence with the more complex, often harsh realities of adult experience. Through a series of lyrical poems and evocative illustrations, Blake employs a unique blend of spirituality and social critique, employing various modes such as metaphor and symbolism to explore themes of love, nature, and societal constraints. The contrasting sections—Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience—invite readers to navigate the nuanced landscape of human life, challenging the dichotomy between innocence and experience that characterized the moral and philosophical debates of the late 18th century. An influential figure in the Romantic movement, William Blake (1757-1827) was a visionary poet, painter, and printmaker whose work has remained integral to the understanding of English literature. His deeply personal upbringing and profound spiritual beliefs informed his artistic endeavors, ultimately leading him to illustrate his vision of a world in constant fluctuation between innocence and awakening. Blake's life, marked by his disdain for social injustices and his quest for spiritual truth, influenced his desire to present an alternative perspective on societal norms through his art and poetry. "Songs of Innocence and of Experience" is essential for any reader interested in the interplay of innocence and complexity in human nature. Blake's insightful commentary on innocence lost and the darker undertones of experience offers a timeless reflection that resonates across generations. This book not only enriches our understanding of poetry but challenges readers to consider their own perspectives on innocence and the world they inhabit.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me:
‘Pipe a song about a Lamb!’ So I piped with merry cheer. ‘Piper, pipe that song again.’ So I piped: he wept to hear.
‘Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer!’ So I sung the same again, While he wept with joy to hear.
‘Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read.’ So he vanished from my sight; And I plucked a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.
How sweet is the shepherd’s sweet lot! From the morn to the evening he strays; He shall follow his sheep all the day, And his tongue shall be fillèd with praise.
For he hears the lambs’ innocent call, And he hears the ewes’ tender reply; He is watchful while they are in peace, For they know when their shepherd is nigh.
The sun does arise, And make happy the skies; The merry bells ring To welcome the Spring; The skylark and thrush, The birds of the bush, Sing louder around To the bells’ cheerful sound; While our sports shall be seen On the echoing green.
Old John, with white hair, Does laugh away care, Sitting under the oak, Among the old folk. They laugh at our play, And soon they all say, ‘Such, such were the joys When we all—girls and boys— In our youth-time were seen On the echoing green.’
Till the little ones, weary, No more can be merry: The sun does descend, And our sports have an end. Round the laps of their mothers Many sisters and brothers, Like birds in their nest, Are ready for rest, And sport no more seen On the darkening green.
Little lamb, who made thee? Does thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and bid thee feed By the stream and o’er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee? Does thou know who made thee?
Little lamb, I’ll tell thee; Little lamb, I’ll tell thee: He is callèd by thy name, For He calls Himself a Lamb. He is meek, and He is mild, He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are callèd by His name. Little lamb, God bless thee! Little lamb, God bless thee!
My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O my soul is white! White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissèd me, And, pointing to the East, began to say:
‘Look on the rising sun: there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away, And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
‘And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.