I want the leaves to talk and tell
The joy that's in the tree,
And water-nymphs to weave a spell
Of pixie melody.
Your silent folk may be sincere,
But still, when all is said,
We have to grant they're rather drear, —
And maybe, too, they're dead.
Convention. [Agnes Lee]
The snow is lying very deep.
My house is sheltered from the blast.
I hear each muffled step outside,
I hear each voice go past.
But I'll not venture in the drift
Out of this bright security,
Till enough footsteps come and go
To make a path for me.
Mad Blake. [William Rose Benet]
Blake saw a treeful of angels at Peckham Rye,
And his hands could lay hold on the tiger's terrible heart.
Blake knew how deep is Hell, and Heaven how high,
And could build the universe from one tiny part.
Blake heard the asides of God, as with furrowed brow
He sifts the star-streams between the Then and the Now,
In vast infant sagacity brooding, an infant's grace
Shining serene on his simple, benignant face.
Blake was mad, they say, — and Space's Pandora-box
Loosed its wonders upon him — devils, but angels indeed.
I, they say, am sane, but no key of mine unlocks
One lock of one gate wherethrough Heaven's glory is freed.
And I stand and I hold my breath, daylong, yearlong,
Out of comfort and easy dreaming evermore starting awake, —
Yearning beyond all sanity for some echo of that Song
Of Songs that was sung to the soul of the madman, Blake!
The Name. [Anna Hempstead Branch]
When I come back from secret dreams
In gardens deep and fair,
How very curious it seems —
This mortal name I bear.