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