The Poems of William Blake

"Love seeketh not itself to please,

Nor for itself hath any care,

But for another gives it ease,

And builds a heaven in hell's despair."

So sang a little clod of clay,

Trodden with the cattle's feet,

But a pebble of the brook

Warbled out these metres meet:

"Love seeketh only Self to please,

To bind another to its delight,

Joys in another's loss of ease,

And builds a hell in heaven's despite."