Short film by Allison Moore

“The Little Girl Lost”

William Blake

In futurity

I prophetic see

That the earth from sleep

(Grave the sentence deep)

Shall arise and seek

For her maker meek;

And in the desart wild

Become a garden mild.

* * *

In the southern clime,

Where the summer’s prime

Never fades away,

Lovely Lyca lay.

Seven summers old

Lovely Lyca told;

She had wander’d long

Hearing wild birds’ song.

“Sweet sleep, come to me

Underneath this tree.

Do father, mother weep,

Where can Lyca sleep?

“Lost in desart wild

Is your little child.

How can Lyca sleep

If her mother weep?

“If her heart does ake

Then let Lyca wake;

If my mother sleep,

Lyca shall not weep.

“Frowning, frowning night,

O’er this desart bright

Let thy moon arise

While I close my eyes.”

Sleeping Lyca lay

While the beasts of prey,

Come from caverns deep,

View’d the maid asleep.

The kingly lion stood

And the virgin view’d,

Then he gamboll’d round

O’er the hollow’d ground.

Leopards, tygers, play

Round her as she lay,

While the lion old

Bow’d his mane of gold.

And her bosom lick,

And upon her neck

From his eyes of flame

Ruby tears there came;

While the lioness

Loos’d her slender dress,

And naked they convey’d

To caves the sleeping maid.

“The Little Girl Found”

William Blake

All the night in woe,

Lyca's parents go:

Over vallies deep.

While the desarts weep.

Tired and woe-begone.

Hoarse with making moan:

Arm in arm seven days.

They trac'd the desert ways.

Seven nights they sleep.

Among shadows deep:

And dream they see their child

Starvdd in desart wild.

Pale thro' pathless ways

The fancied image strays.

Famish'd, weeping, weak

With hollow piteous shriek

Rising from unrest,

The trembling woman prest,

With feet of weary woe;

She could no further go.

In his arms he bore.

Her arm'd with sorrow sore:

Till before their way

A couching lion lay.

Turning back was vain,

Soon his heavy mane.

Bore them to the ground;

Then he stalk'd around.

Smelling to his prey,

But their fears allay,

When he licks their hands:

And silent by them stands.

They look upon his eyes

Fill'd with deep surprise:

And wondering behold.

A spirit arm'd in gold.

On his head a crown

On his shoulders down,

Flow'd his golden hair.

Gone was all their care.

Follow me he said,

Weep not for the maid;

In my palace deep.

Lyca lies asleep.

Then they followed,

Where the vision led;

And saw their sleeping child,

Among tygers wild.

To this day they dwell

In a lonely dell

Nor fear the wolvish howl,

Nor the lion's growl.

Untitled from Allison Moore on Vimeo.