The Clod and the Pebble

Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.

So sung a little Clod of Clay,
Trodden with the cattle’s feet:
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these meters 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.

So sung a little Pebble Stone,
Cursing the Clod of Clay
To let it all wither and grow;
And take down the whole day.

• William Blake