All the night in woe, <br />Lyca's parents go: <br />Over vallies deep. <br />While the desarts weep. <br /> <br />Tired and woe-begone. <br />Hoarse with making moan: <br />Arm in arm seven days. <br />They trac'd the desert ways. <br /> <br />Seven nights they sleep. <br />Among shadows deep: <br />And dream they see their child <br />Starvdd in desart wild. <br /> <br />Pale thro' pathless ways <br />The fancied image strays. <br />Famish'd, weeping, weak <br />With hollow piteous shriek <br /> <br />Rising from unrest, <br />The trembling woman prest, <br />With feet of weary woe; <br />She could no further go. <br /> <br />In his arms he bore. <br />Her arm'd with sorrow sore: <br />Till before their way <br />A couching lion lay. <br /> <br />Turning back was vain, <br />Soon his heavy mane. <br />Bore them to the ground; <br />Then he stalk'd around. <br /> <br />Smelling to his prey, <br />But their fears allay, <br />When he licks their hands: <br />And silent by them stands. <br /> <br />They look upon his eyes <br />Fill'd with deep surprise: <br />And wondering behold. <br />A spirit arm'd in gold. <br /> <br />On his head a crown <br />On his shoulders down, <br />Flow'd his golden hair. <br />Gone was all their care. <br /> <br />Follow me he said, <br />Weep not for the maid; <br />In my palace deep. <br />Lyca lies asleep. <br /> <br />Then they followed, <br />Where the vision led; <br />And saw their sleeping child, <br />Among tygers wild. <br /> <br />To this day they dwell <br />In a lonely dell <br />Nor fear the wolvish howl, <br />Nor the lion's growl.<br /><br />William Blake<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-little-girl-found/
