Silent, silent Night,
Quench the holy light
Of thy torches bright;
For, possessed of Day,
Thousand spirits stray
That sweet joys betray.
Why should joys be sweet
Used with deceit,
Nor with sorrows meet?
But an honest joy
Doth itself destroy
For a harlot coy.
Read all of William Blake's poems · About William Blake
More by William Blake
Write poetry? Submit your poem to Poetry Catalog