351. The Tiger

William Blake (1757—1827)

  TIGER, tiger, 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 seize the fire?

  And what shoulder and what art

  Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

  And, when thy heart began to beat,

  What dread hand and 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?

  Tiger, tiger, burning bright

  In the forests of the night,

  What immortal hand or eye

  Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?