Joy.

Five windows light the cavern'd Man: thro' one he breathes the air;

Thro' one hears music of the spheres; thro' one the Eternal Vine

Flourishes, that he may receive the grapes; thro' one can look

And see small portions of the Eternal World that ever groweth;

Thro' one himself pass out what time he please, but he will not;

For stolen joys are sweet, and bread eaten in secret pleasant.

So sang a Fairy, mocking, as he sat on a streak'd tulip,

Thinking none saw him: when he ceas'd I started from the trees,

And caught him in my hat, as boys knock down a butterfly.

How know you this, said I, small Sir? where did you learn this song?

Seeing himself in my possession, thus he answer'd me:

My Master, I am yours! command me, for I must obey.

Then tell me, what is the Material World, and is it dead?

He, laughing, answer'd: I will write a book on leaves of flowers,

If you will feed me on love−thoughts, and give me now and then

A cup of sparkling poetic fancies; so, when I am tipsy,

I'll sing to you to this soft lute, and show you all alive

The World, when every particle of dust breathes forth its joy.

William Blake