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1757–1827

INFANT SORROW

William Blake

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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INFANT SORROW · William Blake · Poetry Cove