Songs of

​Summer:  

This 11 minute cycle; with poems by William Blake is from his "Songs of Innocence
and Experience."  You can hear this cycle below as performed by the composer,
​bass-baritone with pianist, Dr. Sam Walter. The drawings are by Andrew Hubbard.

1.  Poison Tree, a song of Experience

​
​I was angry with my friend; 
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe: 
I told it not, my wrath did grow. 

And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears: 
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles. 

​
​And it grew both day and night. 
Till it bore an apple bright. 
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine. 

And into my garden stole, 
When the night had veild the pole; 
In the morning glad I see; 
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

2.  Infant Joy, a song of Experience

​My mother groand! my father wept.
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud; 
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

​Struggling in my fathers hands: 
Striving against my swaddling bands: 
Bound and weary I thought best
To sulk upon my mothers breast.

3.  The Lily, a song of Experience

​
​The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:

While the Lily white shall in love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

4.  The Sick Rose, a song of Experience

​
​O Rose thou art sick. 
The invisible worm, 
That flies in the night 
In the howling storm: 
​

​
​Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
​​

5.  Infant Joy, a song of Innocence and
​6.  The Fly, a song of Experience

Infant Joy
I have no name 
I am but two days old.— 
What shall I call thee?
I happy am 
Joy is my name,— 
Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy!
Sweet joy but two days old,
Sweet joy I call thee; 
Thou dost smile. 
I sing the while 
Sweet joy befall thee. ​

The Fly
​Little fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
​And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

What would summer be without open windows that bring us the sound of babies crying in joy and sorrow; & the luscious smells of lilies and roses? What summer picnic would be complete without a restful snooze under the shade of a leafy tree, a few flies and at least one worm?