This life's dim windows of the soul Distorts the heavens from pole to pole And leads you to believe a lie When you see with, not through, the eye.
William BlakeI heard an Angel singing; When the day was springing, Mercy, Pity, Peace; Is the world's release.
William BlakeLittle fly, thy summer's play My thoughtless hand has brushed away. Am not I a fly like thee? Or art not thou a man like me? For I dance and drink and sing, Till some blind hand shall brush my wing!
William Blake