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The Poems of William Blake

INFANT SORROW

My mother groaned, my father wept:

Into the dangerous world I leapt,

Helpless, naked, piping loud,

Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Struggling in my father's hands,

Striving against my swaddling-bands,

Bound and weary, I thought best

To sulk upon my mother's breast.

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