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The Tiger
TIGER, tiger, burning bright |
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| In the forests of the night, |
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| What immortal hand or eye |
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| Could frame thy fearful symmetry? |
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| In what distant deeps or skies |
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| Burnt the fire of thine eyes? |
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| On what wings dare he aspire? |
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| What the hand dare seize the fire? |
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| And what shoulder and what art |
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| Could twist the sinews of thy heart? |
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| And when thy heart began to beat, |
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| What dread hand and what dread feet? |
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| What the hammer? what the chain? |
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| In what furnace was thy brain? |
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| What the anvil? What dread grasp |
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| Dare its deadly terrors clasp? |
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| When the stars threw down their spears, |
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| And water'd heaven with their tears, |
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| Did He smile His work to see? |
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| Did He who made the lamb make thee? |
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| Tiger, tiger, burning bright |
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| In the forests of the night, |
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| What immortal hand or eye |
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Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake. 1757–1827
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