William Blake
THIS is the place. Even here the dauntless soul,
The unflinching hand, wrought on; till in that nook,
As on that very bed, his life partook
New birth, and passed. Yon river’s dusky shoal,
Whereto the close—built coiling lanes unroll,
Faced his work—window, whence his eyes would stare,
Thought—wandering, unto nought that met them there,
But to the unfettered irreversible goal.
This cupboard, Holy of Holies, held the cloud
Of his soul writ and limned; this other one,
His true wife’s charge, full oft to their abode
Yielded for daily bread the martyr’s stone,
Ere yet their food might be that Bread alone,
The words now home—speech of the mouth of God.
