Thou hearest the nightingale begin the Song of Spring: The lark sitting upon his earthy bed: just as the morn Appears; listens silent: then springing from the waving cornfield, loud He leads the choir of Day! trill, trill, trill, trill, Mounting upon the wings of light into the great expanse: Re-echoing against the lovely blue and shining shell. His little throat labours with inspiration, every feather, On throat and breast and wings vibrates with the effluence divine, All Nature listens silent to him, and the awful sun Stands still upon the mountains looking on this little bird, With eyes of soft humility, and wonder, love and awe. Then loud from their green covert all the birds begin their song. The thrush, the linnet and the goldfinch, robin and the wren, Awake the Sun from his sweet reverie upon the mountains. The nightingale again assays his song and through the day And through the night warbles luxuriant: every bird of song Attending his loud harmony with admiration and love. To this passage succeeds another of like beauty, a Flora's Feast of colour and scent. Thou perceivest the flowers put forth their precious odours: And none can tell how from so small a centre comes such sweet, Forgetting that within that centre Eternity expands Its ever-during doors, that Og and Anak fiercely guard. First ere the morning breaks, joy opens in the flowery bosoms, Joy even to tears, which the Sun rising dries: first the wild thyme And meadowsweet downy and soft, waving among the reeds, Light springing in the air, lead the sweet dance: they wake The honeysuckle sleeping on the oak: the flaunting beauty Revels along the wind: the white-thorn, lovely may Opens her many lovely eyes: listening, the rose still sleeps, None dare to wake her: soon she bursts her crimson-curtained bed And comes forth in the majesty of beauty; every flower, The pink, the jessamine, the wall-flower, the carnation, The jonquil, the mild lily opes her heavens: every tree And herb and flower soon fill the ear with an innumerable dance, Yet all in order sweet and lovely. Men are sick with love. Oh! how gladly the ear and heart rest on passages such as these, after toiling through the arid wilds of non-poetical occultism! As usual the illustrations are turned to with keen delight. The iridescent pages recall the charms of the "Songs of Innocence and Experience." Take it all in all the colour in this last prophetic book combines a clarity and brilliance of tone inferior to no other of Blake's. All is careful, clear and precise, and there are no passages of heavy colouring or impasto work.