The Garden of Love

I laid me down upon a bank,
  Where Love lay sleeping;
 I heard among the rushes dank
  Weeping, weeping.
 
 Then I went to the heath and the wild,
  To the thistles and thorns of the waste;
 And they told me how they were beguiled,
  Driven out, and compelled to the chaste.
 
 I went to the Garden of Love,
  And saw what I never had seen;
 A Chapel was built in the midst,
  Where I used to play on the green.
 
 And the gates of this Chapel were shut
  And 'Thou shalt not,' writ over the door;
 So I turned to the Garden of Love
  That so many sweet flowers bore.
 
 And I saw it was filled with graves,
  And tombstones where flowers should be;
 And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
  And binding with briars my joys and desires.

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William Blake

William Blake was an English poet, painter and printmaker. more…

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"The Garden of Love" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2019. Web. 17 Sep. 2019. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/39173/the-garden-of-love>.

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