'Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor itself bath any care,
But for another gives its ewe,
And builds a heaven in hell's despair.'

So sung a little clod of clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But the pebble of the brook,
Warbled out this metres meet :

'Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to to its delight,
Joys in another loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven's despite.'

William Blake
(1757-1827)

My favourite of William Blake's. Would you rather be the Clod or the Pebble ?