All futurity seems teeming with endless destruction never to be repelled; Desperate remorse swallows the present in a quenchless rage. - William Blake

The weak in courage is strong in cunning.

For washed in life's river,
My bright mane forever
Shall shine like the gold
As Iguard o'er the fold.

How sweet I roam'd from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride,
'Till I the prince of love beheld,
Who in the sunny beams did glide!

He shew'd me lilies for my hair,
And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his gardens fair,
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage;
He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty.