The Tyger (William Blake, 1794)

Tigre, tigre, llum que crema
en el bosc de la tenebra,
quina mà immortal guia
la teva temible simetria?

A quins cels o mars distants
mira el foc del teu esguard?
Amb quines ales ho abraces tot,
quina és la mà que doma el foc?

I quina espatlla, quin artesà,
va filar la fibra del teu cor?
I quan aquest cor teu batega,
quina és la mà del nou horror?

I quin martell, quina cadena?
Quina forja et va idear?
I quina enclusa, quina voluntat,
el teu terror gosa dominar?

Quan les estrelles eren llances
I negaven el cel de llàgrimes,
Qui va somriure en veure't dret?
Qui va fer el corder, ¿et féu també?

Tigre, tigre, llum que crema
en el bosc de la tenebra,
quina mà immortal guia
la teva temible simetria?

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Original:

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire 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 water’d heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the Lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?