The Tiger by William Blake

The Tiger by William Blake Tiger! Tiger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burned the fire of thine eyes? Oh what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art? Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? And what dread feet? What the hammer? What the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dead grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tiger! Tiger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? Modern Poetry is weak and pathetic before this 18th Century Man doing his thing with honour, fear, and respect: Wild nature unconquerable, what kind of man are you afore it, are you in chains and futily chaining wildness that will destroy you for your presumption? Bow before the tiger of your fears, for some things seem to be beyond the terror of God. Read by Adam Sandell 2008 [post note, yes I did do this one very late under heavy inebriation after the pub, rather quickly, and posted it, but frankly it is still has character, so it stays up in spite of the dismal imaging and perhaps I can do a remake - to be fair I have been working up this poem for a couple of months, obviously not as long as Nobby (which is why his is more entertaining), but I think you need to know what assonance and onomatopoeia means in practice to read this one as I have tried to]