Poems of William Blake

 The clod and the pebble

 “Love seeketh not itself to please,
   Nor for itself hath any care,
 But for another gives it ease,
   And builds a heaven in hell’s despair.”

 So sang a little clod of clay,
   Trodden with the cattle’s feet,
 But a pebble of the brook
   Warbled out these metres meet: 

 “Love seeketh only Self to please,
   To bind another to its delight,
 Joys in another’s loss of ease,
   And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.”