Der Tiger

Noch einmal Tavener. Noch einmal Blake. Weil es so schön ist. Der Tiger. Komponiert zum 65. Geburtstag von Philip Sherrard. In Griechenland, in Katounia, im Angesicht der gewaltigen Felswand des Kandiligebirges, am Euboeischen Binnenmeer.

Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright
In the forests of the night.

What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burned the fore 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? And what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy symmetry?

William Blake (1757 – 1827)