Tuesday, April 05, 2016

To William Blake

where is the compass of roses
is it where the engravings remain unfinished
on your little work table where the sun came in

and oh, I hope, the perfumed lilacs
blended at the margins of the Other World or

where you left off singing.
and tygers shyly bowed down to you
in no wild land;

gladness of springing
the almond trees at hand
the echoing greens and the children

belong to them

who recognized you at once.
and Dante lingering there
by the porticoes in a sunrise

to which your eyes had not
yet accustomed themselves.
and Jesus the lamb

who understood your verses
all along.

mary angela douglas 5 april 2016