"The terror answerd: I am Orc, wreath'd round the accursed tree: The times are ended; shadows pass the morning gins to break; The fiery joy, that Urizen perverted to ten commands, What night he led the starry hosts thro' the wide wilderness: That stony law I stamp to dust: and scatter religion abroa; To the four winds as a torn book, & none shall gather the leaves; But they shall rot on desart sands, & consume in bottomless deeps; To make the desarts blossom, & the deeps shrink to their fountains, And to renew the fiery joy, and burst the stony roof. That pale religious letchery, seeking Virginity, May find it in a harlot, and in coarse-clad honesty The undefil'd tho' ravish'd in her cradle night and morn: For every thing that lives is holy, life delights in life; Because the soul of sweet delight can never be defil'd. Fires inwrap the earthly globe, yet man is not consumd; Amidst the lustful fires he walks: his feet become like brass, His knees and thighs like silver, & his breast and head like gold."
"The terror answerd: I am Orc, wreath'd round the accursed tree:
ReplyDeleteThe times are ended; shadows pass the morning gins to break;
The fiery joy, that Urizen perverted to ten commands,
What night he led the starry hosts thro' the wide wilderness:
That stony law I stamp to dust: and scatter religion abroa;
To the four winds as a torn book, & none shall gather the leaves;
But they shall rot on desart sands, & consume in bottomless deeps;
To make the desarts blossom, & the deeps shrink to their fountains,
And to renew the fiery joy, and burst the stony roof.
That pale religious letchery, seeking Virginity,
May find it in a harlot, and in coarse-clad honesty
The undefil'd tho' ravish'd in her cradle night and morn:
For every thing that lives is holy, life delights in life;
Because the soul of sweet delight can never be defil'd.
Fires inwrap the earthly globe, yet man is not consumd;
Amidst the lustful fires he walks: his feet become like brass,
His knees and thighs like silver, & his breast and head like gold."
-William Blake, America a Prophecy, 1793-1821, (Copy O, Plate 10)
Here is to envisioning happier days, Slainte. . .
roars & shakes his fires in the burdend air,
Rintrah