Friday, January 17, 2014

Thinking of William Blake

Oh where are you Willie boy,
With your bowl of burning gold
And sword unsheathed
In poetic might against old
Satan's mills?

That sweet Jerusalem
You never found
Among the pastures green
And ancient footsteps still
Unseen in shadows lost
Among the hills.

A vision as pure as dreams,
More beautiful than any tiger,
Brighter than any flame.
Like your arrows of desire
From which Jerusalem
Yet will spring.