By William Blake
William Blake is a poet with no parallel, who remains a resource of knowledge and notion to numerous members through the global.
This choice was once commissioned in 1905 by means of the company of George Routledge from W.B. Yeats, who had formerly been one of many pioneer editors of Blake's prophetic books. Yeats, one of many few poets whose paintings might be in comparison with that of Blake, ready a special collection of his poetic and prose writings. there is not any higher method to come across the paintings of 1 poetic genius than because it is gifted through one other, and Yeats understood Blake in a fashion few others did.
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Extra resources for Collected Poems (Routledge Classics)
Alas, how frail Our best of hopes, how soon they fail! With crimson drops he stains the ground; 15 16 poetical sketches Confusion startles all around. Poor piteous Dick supports his head, And fain would cure the hurt he made. But Kitty hasted with a key, And down his back they straight convey The cold relief; the blood is stayed, And Hodge again holds up his head. Such are the fortunes of the game; And those who play should stop the same By wholesome laws, such as—All those Who on the blinded man impose Stand in his stead; as, long agone When men were ﬁrst a nation grown, Lawless they lived, till wantonness And liberty began to increase, And one man lay in another’s way; Then laws were made to keep fair play.
My Lord Bishop, you would recommend us agriculture? Sweet Prince, the arts of peace are great, And no less glorious than those of war, Perhaps more glorious, in the philosophic mind. When I sit at my home, a private man, My thoughts are on my gardens and my ﬁelds, How to employ the hand that lacketh bread. If Industry is in my diocese, Religion will ﬂourish; each man’s heart Is cultivated and will bring forth fruit: This is my private duty and my pleasure. But, as I sit in council with my prince, My thoughts take in the general good of the whole, And England is the land favoured by Commerce; For Commerce, though the child of Agriculture, Fosters his parent, who else must sweat and toil, And gain but scanty fare.
These, with the exception of “The Ghost of Abel,” a dramatic fragment written very early, but not appearing until 1822, were the last poems published by him. He continued until the end of his life to ﬁnd occasional purchasers for these and other “Prophetic Books,” but never any to read and understand. He did not, however, cease to write. “I have written more than Voltaire or Rousseau,” he said, in one of the last years of his life; “six or seven epic poems as long as Homer, and twenty tragedies as long as Macbeth.