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A contemporary with Robert Burns, William Blake found the years between 1800-1803 to be one of spiritual exaltation and of recovered serenity. At that time a book of ten poems he wrote were collected in a smaller holograph known as "Pickering MS". The following poem was one of those contained in it.
To see the world in a Grain of Sand and Heaven in a Wild Flower,
A Robin Redbreast in a cage puts all Heaven in a rage.
A dove-house fill’d with Doves and Pigeons shudders Hell thro’ all its regions.
A Dog starv’d at his master’s gate predicts the ruin of the State.
A Horse misus’d upon the road calls to heaven for Human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted Hare a fibre from the Brain does tear.
A Skylark wounded in the the wing a Cherubim does cease to sing.
The Game-Cock clipt and arm’d for fight does the Rising Sun affright.
Every Wolf’s and Lion’s howl rasies from Hell a Human soul.
The wild Deer, wandering here and there, keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus’d breeds Public strife, and yet forgives the Butcher’s knife.
He who shall hurt the little Wren shall never be belov’d by Men.
He who the Ox to wrath has mov’d shall never be by Woman lov’d.
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly shall feel the Spider’s enmity.
He who torments the Chafer’s Sprite weaves a Bower in endless Night.
The Caterpiller on the Leaf repeats to thee thy Mother’s grief.
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly, for the last Judgment draweth nigh.
He who shall train the Horse to war shall never pass the Polar Bar.
The Beggar’s Dog and Widow’s Cat, feed them, and thou wilt grow fat.
The Bat that flits at close of eve has left the Brain that won’t believe.
The Owl that calls upon the night speaks the Unbeliever’s fright.
The Gnat that sings his Summer’s song poison get from Slander’s tongue.
The poison of the Snake and Newt is the sweat of Envy’s foot.
The poison of the Honey Bee is the Artist’s jealousy.
A Truth that’s told with bad intent beats all the Lies you can invent.
Joy and Woe are woven fine, a clothing for the Soul divine;
Under every grief and pine runs a joy with silken twine.
It is right it shuld be so; man was made for joy and Woe;
And when this we rightly know, thro’ the World we safely go.
The babe is more than swadling-band; Throughout all these Human lands.
Tools were made, and born were hands, every Farmer understands.
Every Tear from every Eye becomes a Babe in Eternity;
This is caught by Females bright, and returned to its own delight.
The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow, and Roar are waves that beat on Heaven’s Shore.
The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath writes Revenge in realms of Death.
He who mocks the Infant’s Faith shall be mock’d in Age and Death.
He who shall teach the Child to doubt the rotting Grave shall ne’er get out.
He who respects the Infant’s Faith triumphs over Hell and Death.
The Child’s Toys and the Old Man’s Reasons are the Fruits of Two Seasons.
The Questioner, who sits so sly, shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of Doubt doth put the Light of Knowledge out.
A riddle, or the Cricket’s cry, is to Doubt a fit Reply.
The Emmet’s Inch and Eagle’s Mile make lame Philosophy to smile.
He who doubt from what he sees will ne’er believe, do what you please.
If the Sun and Moon should doubt, they’d immediately go out.
The Prince’s Robes and Beggar’s Rags are Toadstools on the Miser’s Bags.
The Beggar’s Rags, fluttering in air, does to Rags the heavens tear.
The Poor Man’s Farthing is worth more than all the Gold on Afric’s shore.
One Mite wrung from the lab’rer’s hand shall buy and sell the Miser’s lands;
Or, if protected from on high, does that whole Nation sell and buy.
The Soldier, arm’d with Sword and Gun, palsied strikes the Summer’s Sun.
The strongest poison ever known came from Caesar’s laurel Crown.
Nought can deform the Human Race like to the Armour’s iron brace.
When Gold and Gems adorn the Plow to peaceful Arts shall Envy bow.
To be in a Passion you Good may do, but no Good if a Passion is in you.
The Whore and Gambler, by the State liscensed, build that Nation’s Fate.
The Harlot’s cry from street to street shall weave Old England’s winding-sheet.
The Winner’s shout, the Loser’s curse, dance before dead England’s Hearse.
Every Night and every Morn some to Misery are born.
Every Morn and every Night some are born to Sweet Delight.
Some are Born to Sweet Delight, some are born to Endless Night.
We are led to believe a Lie when we see not thro’ the Eye,
Which was born in a Night, to perish in a Night,
When the soul slept in Beams of Light. God appears, and God is Light,
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night; But does a Human Form display
To those who dwell in Realms of Day.
I will give you a complete bio on Blake tomorrow along with a wonderful account
of a Lakeland poet of which you may never have heard. ‘Til then ….
The Castle Lady says Mwah!
Bon Bisous a’ Florent et Gaet!