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Mary

Sweet Mary the first time she ever was there
Came into the Ball room among the Fair
The young Men and Maidens around her throng
And these are the words upon every tongue

An Angel is here from the heavenly Climes
Or again does return the Golden times
Her eyes outshine every brilliant ray
She opens her lips tis the Month of May

Mary moves in soft beauty and conscious delight
To augment with sweet smiles all the joys of the Night
Nor once blushes to own to the rest of the Fair
That sweet Love and Beauty are worthy our care

In the Morning the Villagers rose with delight
And repeated with pleasure the joys of the night
And Mary arose among Friends to be free
But no Friend from henceforward thou Mary shalt see

Some said she was proud some calld her a whore
And some when she passed by shut to the door
A damp cold came oer her her blushes all fled
Her lillies and roses are blighted and shed

O why was I born with a different Face
Why was I not born like this Envious Racet
Why did Heaven adorn me with bountiful hand
And then set me down in an envious Land

To be weak as a Lamb and smooth as a Dove
And not to raise Envy is calld Christian Love
But if you raise Envy your Merits to blame
For planting such spite in the weak and the tame

I will humble my Beauty I will not dress fine
I will keep from the Ball and my Eyes shall not shine
And if any Girls Lover forsakes her for me
I'll refuse him my hand and from Envy be freet

She went out in Morning attird plain and neat
Proud Marys gone Mad said the Child in the Street
She went out in Morning in plain neat attire
And came home in Evening bespatterd with mire

She trembled and wept sitting on the Bed side
She forgot it was Night & she trembled and cried
She forgot it was Night she forgot it was Morn
Her soft Memory imprinted with Faces of Scorn

With Faces of Scorn and with Eyes of disdain
Like foul Fiends inhabiting Marys mild Brain
She remembers no Face like the Human Divine
All Faces have Envy sweet Mary but thine

And thine is a Face of sweet Love in Despair
And thine is a Face of mild sorrow and care
And thine is a Face of wild terror and fear
That shall never be quiet till laid on its bier

poem by William Blake from Songs and Ballads (1794)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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