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William Blake – from The Complete Poems

But silken nets and traps of adamant will Oothoon spread
And catch for thee girls of mild silver, or of furious gold
I’ll lie beside thee on a bank and view their wanton play
In lovely copulation bliss on bliss with Theomorton
Red as the rosy morning, lustful as the first born beam
Oothoon shall view his dear delight, nor e’er with jealous cloud
Come in the heaven of generous love; nor selfish blightings bring

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His emanation
Like a faint rainbow waved before him in the awful gloom
Of London City on the Thames from Surrey Hills to Highgate
Swift turn the silver spindle and the golden weights play soft
And lulling harmonies beneath the looms from Caithness in the north
To Lizard Point and Dover in the south; his emanation
Joy’d in the many weaving threads in bright Cathedrons Dome
Weaving the web of life for Jerusalem, the web of life
Down flowing into Entuthons vales glistens with soft affections

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When winter rends the hungry family and the snow falls
Upon the ways of men hiding the paths of man and beast
Then mourns the wanderer; then he repents his wandering and eyes
The distant forest; then the slave groans in the dungeon of stone
The captive in the mill of the stranger, sold for scanty hire
They view their former life; they number moments over and over
Stringing them on their remembrance as on a thread of sorrow
Thou art my sister and my daughter, thy shame is mine also
Ask not of my griefs, thou knowest all my griefs

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Beneath the white thorn lovely May
Three virgins at the break of day…….
The one was clothed in flames of fire
The other clothed in iron wire
The other clothed in tears and sighs
Dazzling bright before my eyes
They bore a net of golden twine
To hang upon the branches fine

….

Wings they had that soft enclose
Round their body when they chose
And in tears clothed night and day
Melted all my soul away

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Bore the golden net aloft
As by downy pinions soft
O’er the morning of my day
Underneath the net I stray
Now entreating flaming fire
Now entreating iron wire
Now entreating tears and sighs
O when will the Morning rise

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From her bosom weaving soft in sinewy threads
A tabernacle of delight