From the New York Tribune, October 20, 1912. By William Blake. Tiger, tiger burning bright In the forest of the night! What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the ardor of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire— What the hand dare 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 form’d thy dread feet? What the hammer, what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? Did God smile on his work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee?
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