Poem by William Blake

* * *

Leave, O leave me to my sorrows;
Here I'll sit and fade away,
Till I'm nothing but a spirit,
And I lose this form of clay.

Then if chance along this forest
Any walk in pathless way,
Thro' the gloom he'll see my shadow
Hear my voice upon the breeze.

1. To Thomas Butts
2. The Invocation
3. A Divine Image
4. Epigram
5. Three Things to Remember

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