Ah weep not little voice, thou can'st not speak, but thou can'st weep: Is this a Worm? I see they lay helpless & naked: weeping And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mothers smiles.
The Clod of Clay heard the Worms voice & rais'd her pitying head: She bowd over the weeping infant, and her life exhald In milky fondness, then on Thel she fix'd her humble eyes
O beauty of the vales of Har, we live not for ourselves, Thou seest me the meanest thing, and so I am indeed: My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark,
But he that loves the lowly, pours his oil upon my head And kisses me, and binds his nuptial bands around my breast.
-william blake
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