"Ah, sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun, Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller's journey is done; Where the youth pined away with desire And the pale virgin shrouded in snow Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my sunflower wishes to go."
"And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every Child may joy to hear."
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Source: William Blake, Andrew Lincoln (1991). “Songs of Innocence and of Experience”, p.143, Princeton University Press
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