"Like a fiend in a cloud,With howling woe,After night I do crowd,And with night will go;I turn my back to the east,From whence comforts have increased;For light doth seize my brainWith frantic pain."

“And we are put on earth a little space,That we may learn to bear the beams of love,And these black bodies and this sunburnt faceIs but a cloud, and like a shady grove.”

“My mother bore me in the southern wild,And I am black, but O! my soul is white;White as an angel is the English child,But I am black as if bereaved of light.”

“Little Lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Gave thee life and bid thee feedBy the stream and o'er the mead;Gave thee clothing of delight,Softest clothing, woolly bright.”

“Sing louder aroundTo the bells' cheerful sound,While our sports shall be seenOn the ecchoing green.”

“And I made a rural pen,And I stained the water clear,And I wrote my happy songsEvery child may joy to hear.”

“Piping down the valleys wild,Piping songs of pleasant glee,On a cloud I saw a child,And he laughing said to me:"Pipe a song about a Lamb."So I piped with merry cheer;"Piper, pipe that song again."So I piped; he wept to hear.”