THIS is the place. Even here the dauntless soul, <br />The unflinching hand, wrought on; till in that nook, <br />As on that very bed, his life partook <br />New birth, and passed. Yon river's dusky shoal, <br />Whereto the close-built coiling lanes unroll, <br />Faced his work-window, whence his eyes would stare, <br />Thought-wandering, unto nought that met them there, <br />But to the unfettered irreversible goal. <br />This cupboard, Holy of Holies, held the cloud <br />Of his soul writ and limned; this other one, <br />His true wife's charge, full oft to their abode <br />Yielded for daily bread the martyr's stone, <br />Ere yet their food might be that Bread alone, <br />The words now home-speech of the mouth of God.<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/william-blake-2/
