William Blake (1757–1827)

HOW sweet I roam’d from field to field

And tasted all the summer’s pride,

Till I the prince of love beheld

Who in the sunny beams did glide!

He shew’d me lilies for my hair,

And blushing roses for my brow;

He led me through his gardens fair

Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May dews my wings were wet,

And Phœbus fir’d my vocal rage;

He caught me in his silken net,

And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,

Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;

Then stretches out my golden wing,

And mocks my loss of liberty.