Tuesday, May 24, 2011
An Engraving of Blake
"From the ceiling near the roof
Runs smoke of star and field:
The father brings his weather proof
That he will try, and we will yield.
The boly unwinds into the dark;
His beard is blowing in the dark.
About his eyes, no energy.
The climate falls into his hand.
We cast about as we sleep
And see, that this is as he planned--
That we should know his earth, his air
For rocks of tears and rivers of hair."