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Poetry of William Blake

THE CLOD AND THE PEBBLE

'Love seeketh not itself to please,
   Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
   And builds a heaven in hell's despair.'

So sung a little clod of clay,
   Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a pebble of the brook
   Warbled out these metres meet:

'Love seeketh only Self to please,
   To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
   And builds a hell in heaven's despite.'