Blake cared much for sleep as the time when man was most free from the tyranny of the senses. Many of his characters are represented as asleep, and the conception is transferred to many lovely scenes in Nature. He pictures summer as sleeping beneath oaks; flowers shut their eyes in sleep; the west wind sleeps on the lake; and dawn sleeps in heaven. With this is associated an evident pleasure in the silence of Nature, apparently the pathetic complement of its joys. There is a silent sleep over the deep of heaven; the evening star speaks silence to the lake. At night the moon is silent, and the earth, and the sea. Occasional passages show the character of Blake’s own love of Nature, as, I love to rise on a summer morn, I love the laughing vale, I love the echoing hill. His feeling toward flowers was as intimate, as tenderly protecting, as was that of Burns toward small animals. Sun and stars, winds, clouds, dew, and angels are represented as caring for the happy blossoms. All of Blake’s poetry of Nature is as freshly beautiful as the dewy mornings, the spring-time green, the shining skies, as clear and transparent as the limpid, dimpling streams he loved. There are also frequent passages that besides their metrical flow and exquisite charm of external suggestion seem to reveal the essential spirit of the object described. One of the loveliest examples is the word of the Lily of the Valley. I am a watry weed, And I am very small and love to dwell in lowly vales: So weak the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head. Yet I am visited from heaven; and He that smiles on all Walks in the valley, and each morn over me spreads his hand. Saying, Rejoice, thou humble grass, thou new-born lilly flower, Thou gentle maid of silent valleys and of modest brooks; For thou shalt be clothed in light and fed with morning manna.[461] For fine contrasts, each poem perfect of its kind, see “The Lamb” and “The Tiger.” The modest simplicity of the one is as adequately portrayed as the dread magnificence of the other. There is no description. There is interpretation of the most penetrating sort. He has also frequent similes worked out with picturesque detail, as in this one from “The Couch of Death”: He was like a cloud tossed by the winds, till the sun shines, and the drops of rain glisten, the yellow harvest breathes, and the thankful eyes of villagers are turned up in smiles; the traveller, that hath taken shelter under an oak, eyes the distant country with joy. One secret of the effectiveness of Blake’s best work is his recognition of the unity of all existence. The prefatory stanza to “Auguries of Innocence,” To see a world in a grain of sand, And a heaven in a wild flower; Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour,