In William Blake’s “Night,” a speaker watches the sunset and feels a pull toward rest, just as birds have found their nests. The quiet evening soon fills with unseen angels who move through the landscape, silently blessing every bud, blossom, and sleeping creature. They guard nests and caves, soothing those who weep and protecting the vulnerable from harm. The poem’s mood is one of tender watchfulness, as if the night itself is a caring presence. This vision expands in the final stanzas: even fierce wolves and tigers are mourned by the angels, and the poem imagines a future where the lion’s eyes weep golden tears of pity, lying down beside the lamb. It’s a dream of complete, gentle peace — a world where all conflict vanishes, washed away by divine mercy. The speaker feels not just safe, but embraced by a love that extends to every living thing.
Night — Summary
The sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower In heaven's high bower, With silent delight, Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy grove, Where flocks have ta'en delight. Where lambs have nibbled, silent move The feet of angels bright; Unseen they pour blessing, And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest Where birds are covered warm; They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm: If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey, They pitying stand and weep; Seeking to drive their thirst away, And keep them from the sheep. But, if they rush dreadful, The angels, most heedful, Receive each mild spirit, New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold: And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold: Saying: "Wrath by His meekness, And, by His health, sickness, Are driven away From our immortal day.
"And now beside thee, bleating lamb, I can lie down and sleep, Or think on Him who bore thy name, Graze after thee, and weep. For, washed in life's river, My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold, As I guard o'er the fold."