William Blake (1757–1827)

I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow.

When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue, Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep. So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep.

Little Lamb who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Gave thee life & bid thee feed, By the stream & o'er the mead;

O rose thou art sick. The invisible worm, That flies in the night In the howling storm: