 | Le Cahier Jaune |  |
29
WILLIAM BLAKE.
O strenuous spirit, in thy serious cell
Riding on rays, upborne by angel's wings,
Fed and sustained from sweet and secret springs
Not for loud conquests, but to labour well:
Yet and anon the dolorous curtain fell,
And thy vext brain in sick imaginings,
Peopled the dark with fiery rushing things,
And all the staring larva-brood of hell.
Riding on rays, upborne by angel's wings,
Fed and sustained from sweet and secret springs
Not for loud conquests, but to labour well:
Yet and anon the dolorous curtain fell,
And thy vext brain in sick imaginings,
Peopled the dark with fiery rushing things,
And all the staring larva-brood of hell.
Not thine the crown that binds the poet's brow,
But Art's ethereal halo, and the rare
Fine diadem for men of simple mould,
Who speak but as they feel, and cannot bow
Nor truckle, though in perilous waters rolled
Of penury, derision and despair.
But Art's ethereal halo, and the rare
Fine diadem for men of simple mould,
Who speak but as they feel, and cannot bow
Nor truckle, though in perilous waters rolled
Of penury, derision and despair.
Eton, 1892.
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