Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright,
In the Forest of the night,
With immortal hand or eye
could frame thy fearful symmetry

In that distant deeps or skys,
Burning fire of thine eyes?
On wings dare he aspire?
What hand dare he seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? And what dread feet?

What the hammer?
What the chain?
In the furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil?
What dread gasp?
Dere it's deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who make the Lamb make me?

Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright,
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry.

William Blake