for the poet William Blake
there is much to Pity in this disenchanting world
so felt William Blake in his illuminating way
the self turned inward all shell and no pearl
the cries of children drifting drowning
in a limpid bay
how shall I enumerate the sorrows
I seem to hear him say
on watery afternoons. in early Spring
poor Thel in watercolours
the worm infested rose
lost continents in peril across the vanishing green.
and yet it is golden, sight unseen in terrifying tygers
in untranslatable dreams
I feel he softly said
though the neighbors deemed him mad
leaning his star struck spindly ladders against a daylight moon
oh my prophetic, my delicately tuned soul
my angels in trees at every high noon
break out in singing inordinately gold
and cannot grow old at sixes and sevens;
forever. forever on the brink of Heaven.
mary angela douglas 13 august 2022
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