William Blake
Memory, hither come,
        And tune your merry notes;
And, while upon the wind
        Your music floats,
 
I’ll pore upon the stream
        Where sighing lovers dream,
And fish for fancies as they pass
        Within the watery glass.
 
I’ll drink of the clear stream,
        And hear the linnet’s song;
And there I’ll lie and dream
        The day along:
 
And, when night comes, I’ll go
        To places fit for woe,
Walking along the darken’d valley
        With silent Melancholy.
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