Then down I’ll lie, as cold as clay…

Song

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 worship’d tomb,
Where all love’s pilgrims come.

IMG_1838

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!

Song by William Blake
From Poetical Sketches
1769-1777

Image:
Lily Cole for Vogue UK

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