A POISON TREEBy William BlakeI was angry with my friend:I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fearsNight and morning with my tears,And I sunned it with smilesAnd with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,Till it bore an apple bright,And my foe beheld it shine,And he knew that it was mine, —And into my garden stoleWhen the night had veiled the pole;In the morning, glad, I seeMy foe outstretched beneath the tree.

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