William, William, writing late
by the chill and sooty grate,
what immortal story can
make your tiger roar again?
When I was sent to fetch your meat
I confess that I did eat
half the roast and all the bread.
He will never know, I said.
When I was sent to fetch your drink,
I confess that I did think
you would never miss the three
lumps of sugar by your tea.
Soon I saw my health decline
and I knew the fault was mine.
Only William Blake can tell
tales to make a tiger well.
Now I lay me down to sleep
with bear and rabbit, bird and sheep.
If I should dream before I wake,
may I dream of William Blake.