maquette de travail de l'album "Ode to William Blake" en préparation. <br /><br />When my mother died I was very young, <br />And my father sold me while yet my tongue, <br />Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep. <br />So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep, <br /><br />There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head <br />That curl'd like a lambs back, was shav'd, so I said. <br />Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head's bare, <br />You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair. <br /><br />And so he was quiet, & that very night, <br />As Tom was a sleeping he had such a sight, <br />That thousands of sweepers Dick, Joe, Ned & Jack <br />Were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black, <br /><br />And by came an Angel who had a bright key, <br />And he open'd the coffins & set them all free. <br />Then down a green plain leaping laughing they run <br />And wash in a river and shine in the Sun. <br /><br />Then naked & white, all their bags left behind, <br />They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.
