Rupert Atkinson

William Blake

LITTLE songs like fairies winging
Down the happy star-ways, falling,
When you heard his fancy singing
Many a joy of gold and blue,
Glancing, gleaming, dancing, dreaming,
Did you hear him laughing, calling.
Calling you?

Little songs he spied and caught you

Though you dallied, weeping, praying;
Through bright woodlands wild he brought you

Under skies of white and blue;
Glancing, gleaming, dancing, dreaming.
Where you played he lingered playing,
Playing too.

Little songs he left you, dying;

Songs that could not find him, hollow
With sick pining, lured him, sighing;

And his dreams of gold and blue,
Glancing, gleaming, dancing, dreaming.
These are lost until we follow,
Follow too.