“Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”
–William Blake
Were I that nocturnal traveler
whose sunburnt face combs the grass
deterring the hornéd goat upon its path,
and the crawling snake
of slithering gait.
Were I that thirst and hunger
that shakes branches and empties rivers
building lush palaces within the trees,
learning lessons from the leaves.
Were I that cub born of a tiger
whose name resounds in the dusk
recalling itself to the forest,
when the moon hides its pale countenance
behind the clouds.
Painting: Tiger and Snake (1862) Eugene Delacroix
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”
–William Blake
Were I that nocturnal traveler
whose sunburnt face combs the grass
deterring the hornéd goat upon its path,
and the crawling snake
of slithering gait.
Were I that thirst and hunger
that shakes branches and empties rivers
building lush palaces within the trees,
learning lessons from the leaves.
Were I that cub born of a tiger
whose name resounds in the dusk
recalling itself to the forest,
when the moon hides its pale countenance
behind the clouds.
Painting: Tiger and Snake (1862) Eugene Delacroix
