William Blake (1757–1827)

ONCE a dream did weave a shade

O’er my Angel-guarded bed,

That an emmet lost its way

Where on grass methought I lay.

Troubled, ’wilder’d, and forlorn,

Dark, benighted, travel-worn,

Over many a tangled spray,

All heart-broke I heard her say:

‘O, my children! do they cry?

Do they hear their father sigh?

Now they look abroad to see:

Now return and weep for me.’

Pitying, I drop’d a tear;

But I saw a glow-worm near,

Who replied: ‘What wailing wight

Calls the watchman of the night?

‘I am set to light the ground,

While the beetle goes his round:

Follow now the beetle’s hum;

Little wanderer, hie thee home.’