Blake saw a treeful of angels at Peckham Rye, And his hands could lay hold on the tiger's terrible heart. Blake knew how deep is Hell, and Heaven how high, And could build the universe from one tiny part. Blake heard the asides of God, as with furrowed brow He sifts the star-streams between the Then and the Now, In vast infant sagacity brooding, an infant's grace Shining serene on his simple, benignant face.
Blake was mad, they say, — and Space's Pandora-box Loosed its wonders upon him — devils, but angels indeed. I, they say, am sane, but no key of mine unlocks One lock of one gate wherethrough Heaven's glory is freed. And I stand and I hold my breath, daylong, yearlong, Out of comfort and easy dreaming evermore starting awake, — Yearning beyond all sanity for some echo of that Song Of Songs that was sung to the soul of the madman, Blake!