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What the anvil? What dread grasp
When the stars threw down their spears,
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
The Spacious Firmament on High
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
The unwearied sun from day to day
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
Repeats the story of her birth;
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
What though in solemn silence, all
The World Beautiful
Green Things Growing
Oh, the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing!
How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing; "
"Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
Lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, And watch intently Nature's gentle doings;
They will be found softer than ringdoves' cooings."
"Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for being."
They know the time to go!
The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hour
In field and woodland, and each punctual flower
And hastes to bed."
"If so the sweetness of the wheat Into my soul might pass,
And the clear courage of the grass."
"Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies;