The sky is an immortal tent built by the Sons of Los: <br /> And every space that a man views around his dwelling-place <br /> Standing on his own roof or in his garden on a mount <br /> Of twenty-five cubits in height, such space is his universe: <br /> And on its verge the sun rises and sets, the clouds bow <br /> To meet the flat earth and the sea in such an order'd space: <br /> The starry heavens reach no further, but here bend and set <br /> On all sides, and the two Poles turn on their valves of gold: <br /> And if he moves his dwelling-place, his heavens also move <br /> Where'er he goes, and all his neighbourhood bewail his loss. <br /> Such are the spaces called Earth and such its dimension. <br /> As to that false appearance which appears to the reasoner <br /> As of a globe rolling through voidness, it is a delusion of Ulro. <br />The microscope knows not of this nor the telescope: they alter <br />The ratio of the spectator's organs, but leave objects untouch'd. <br /> For every space larger than a red globule of Man's blood <br /> Is visionary, and is created by the Hammer of Los; <br /> And every space smaller than a globule of Man's blood opens <br /> Into Eternity of which this vegetable Earth is but a shadow. <br />The red globule is the unwearied sun by Los created <br /> To measure time and space to mortal men every morning<br /><br />William Blake<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/milton-the-sky-is-an-immortal-tent-built-by-the/
