The sky is an immortal tent built by the Sons of Los: And every space that a man views around his dwelling-place Standing on his own roof or in his garden on a mount...
I will sing you a song of Los. the Eternal Prophet: He sung it to four harps at the tables of Eternity. In heart-formed Africa. Urizen faded! Ariston shudderd! And thus the Song began ...
O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down Thro' the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring! ...
O thou who passest thro' our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer, Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent, and oft...
Thou fair-haired angel of the evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!...
Why should I care for the men of thames Or the cheating waves of charter'd streams Or shrink at the little blasts of fear That the hireling blows into my ear