The Complete Poetry and Prose

The fool who persists in his folly will become wise.

That which can be made Explicit to the idiot is not worth my care.

The bounded is loathed by its possessor. The same dull round even of a universe would soon become a mill with complicated wheels.

To create a little flower is the labor of ages.

Pity would be no more, If we did not make somebody Poor: And Mercy no more could be, If all were as happy as we; And mutual fear brings peace; Till the selfish loves increase. Then Cruelty knits a snare, And spreads his baits with care.

Praise is the practice of Art.

I will not endure this thing! I alone withstand to death, This outrage! Ah me! how sick & pale you all stand round me! Ah me! pitiable ones! do you also go the deaths vale? All you my Friends & Brothers! all you my beloved Companions! Have you also caught the infection of Sin & stern Repentance? I see Disease arise upon you! yet speak to me and give Me some comfort: why do you all stand silent? I alone Remain in permanent strength.

In tortures of dire coldness now a Lake of waters deep Sweeps over thee freezing to solid still thou sitst closd up In that transparent rock as if in joy of thy bright prison Till overburdend with its own weight drawn out thro immensity With a crash breaking across the horrible mass comes down Thundring & hail & frozen iron haild from the Element Rends thy white hair yet thou dost fixd obdurate brooding sit Writing thy books. Anon a cloud filld with a waste of snows Covers thee still obdurate still resolvd & writing still Tho rocks roll oer thee tho floods pour tho winds black as the Sea Cut thee in gashes tho the blood pours down around thy ankles Freezing thy feet to the hard rock still thy pen obdurate Traces the wonders of Futurity in horrible fear of the future

And Urizen gave life & sense by his immortal power To all his Engines of deceit that linked chains might run Thro ranks of war spontaneous & that hooks & boring screws Might act according to their forms by innate cruelty He also formed harsh instruments of sound To grate the soul into destruction or to inflame with fury The spirits of life to pervert all the faculties of sense Into their own destruction if perhaps he might avert His own despair even at the cost of every thing that breaths

And did those feet in ancient time, Walk upon Englands mountains green: And was the holy Lamb of God, On Englands pleasant pastures seen! And did the Countenance Divine, Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here, Among these dark Satanic Mills?