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William Blake - Song
Work rating: Low

My silks and fine array,
My smiles and languish`d air,
By love are driv`n away;
And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave;
Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heav`n
When springing buds unfold;
O why to him was`t giv`n
Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is love`s all-worshipp`d tomb,
Where all love`s pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade,
Bring me a winding sheet;
When I my grave have made
Let winds and tempests beat:
Then down I`ll lie as cold as clay.
True love doth pass away!
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