# data[].attributes.body
Percy Bysshe Shelley

# data[].attributes.body
William Blake

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Poet, painter, engraver, and visionary William Blake worked to bring about a change both in the social order and in the minds of men. Though in his lifetime his work was largely neglected or dismissed, he is now considered one of the leading lights of...

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
The Sick Rose by William Blake | Poetry Foundation

# data[].attributes.body
William Blake

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
A Poison Tree by William Blake | Poetry Foundation

# data[].attributes.body
William Blake

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
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 seize 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?

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
The Tyger by William Blake | Poetry Foundation

# data[].attributes.body
John Clare

# data[].attributes.body
William Wordsworth

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed-and gazed-but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud by William Wordsworth | Poetry Foundation

# data[].attributes.body
Thomas Lovell Beddoes

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.keywords[]
thomas lovell beddoes (1803-1849). wolfram's song. arthur quiller-couch

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.keywords[]
comp. 1922. the oxford book of victorian verse

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803-1849). Wolfram's Song. Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. 1922. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803-1849). Wolfram's Song. Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. 1922. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse

# data[].attributes.body
Edgar Allan Poe

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe | Poetry Foundation

# data[].attributes.body
William Wordsworth

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
That lightly draws its breath,

And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:

She was eight years old, she said;

Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;

-Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

"How many? Seven in all," she said,

And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."

She answered, "Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,

My sister and my brother;

And, in the church-yard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,

Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,

Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply,

"Seven boys and girls are we;

Two of us in the church-yard lie,

Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,

Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,

And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,

And there upon the ground I sit,

"And often after sun-set, Sir,

When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,

"The first that died was sister Jane;

Till God released her of her pain;

"So in the church-yard she was laid;

And, when the grass was dry,

Together round her grave we played,

"And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,

"If they two are in heaven?"

Quick was the little Maid's reply,

"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!"

'Twas throwing words away; for still

The little Maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
We Are Seven by William Wordsworth | Poetry Foundation

# data[].attributes.body
William Wordsworth

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
My Heart Leaps Up - My heart leaps up when I behold

# data[].attributes.body
William Wordsworth

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
The World Is Too Much With Us by William... | Poetry Foundation

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
The world is too much with us; late and soon,

# data[].attributes.body
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those…

# data[].attributes.headline
The Chimney Sweeper: When my mother died I was very young

# data[].attributes.subject
The Chimney Sweeper: When my mother died I was very young

# data[].attributes.body
By William Blake

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
The Chimney Sweeper: When my mother died I was… | Poetry Foundation