puisi inggris-The Chimney-Sweeper

 Puisi inggris

The Chimney-Sweeper

by William Blake

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, and in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said,
'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.'

And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!--
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;
And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.



"Ketika ibuku meninggal, aku masih sangat muda, Dan ayah saya menjual saya sementara lidah saya Hampir tidak bisa menangis 'Menangis! menangis! menangis! menangis!' Jadi cerobong Anda saya sapu, dan dalam jelaga saya tidur. Ada sedikit Tom Dacre, yang menangis ketika kepalanya, Yang melengkung seperti punggung domba, dicukur; jadi saya bilang, 'Hush, Tom! lupakan saja, karena, ketika kepala Anda telanjang, Anda tahu bahwa jelaga tidak bisa merusak rambut putih Anda. ' Jadi dia diam, dan malam itu juga, Karena Tom sedang tidur, dia memiliki pemandangan seperti itu! Ribuan penyapu, Dick, Joe, Ned, dan Jack, Apakah mereka semua dikurung di peti mati hitam. Dan datanglah malaikat, yang memiliki kunci yang cerah, Dan dia membuka peti mati, dan membebaskan mereka semua; Kemudian menuruni dataran hijau, melompat, tertawa, mereka berlari Dan cuci di sungai, dan bersinar di bawah sinar matahari. Kemudian telanjang dan putih, semua tas mereka tertinggal, Mereka naik ke atas awan, dan olahraga di angin; Dan malaikat itu memberi tahu Tom, apakah dia akan menjadi anak yang baik, Dia akan memiliki Tuhan untuk ayahnya, dan tidak pernah menginginkan kebahagiaan. Dan Tom bangun, dan kami bangkit dalam kegelapan, Dan dapatkan tas dan sikat kami untuk bekerja. Meskipun pagi itu dingin, Tom senang dan hangat: Jadi, jika semua melakukan tugasnya, mereka tidak perlu takut bahaya"

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puisi inggris - cradle song

puisi bahasa inggris

puisi inggris-Cradle Song

William Blake, 1757 - 1827

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feel
Smiles as of the morning steal
O’er thy cheek, and o’er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.

O the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful night shall break.

This poem is in the public domain.

Then the dreadful night shall break.

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puisi inggris-London

William Blake, 1757 - 1827

I wander thro’ each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,
In every Infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.

How the Chimney-sweeper’s cry
Every blackning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot’s curse
Blasts the new-born Infant’s tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

This poem is in the public domain.

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puisi inggris-The Sick Rose

puisi bahasa inggris

puisi inggris-The Sick Rose

William Blake, 1757 - 1827

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

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

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puisi inggris-A Poison Tree

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.

And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,--

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

This poem is in the public domain.

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puisi inggris-The Tyger

William Blake, 1757 - 1827

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

This poem is in the public domain.

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puisi inggris-Ah! Sunflower

William Blake, 1757 - 1827

Ah! sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun,
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller’s journey is done;

Where the youth pined away with desire,
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves and aspire;
Where my sunflower wishes to go.

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puisi bahasa inggris-The Fly

puisi bahasa inggris

puisi inggris-The Fly

William Blake, 1757 - 1827

Little fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

From Songs of Experience. First published in 1794. This poem is in the public domain.

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