Sunday, November 15, 2015

The Little Boy Lost

William Blake

Father, father, where are you going
O do not walk so fast.
Speak father, speak to your little boy
Or else I shall be lost,

The night was dark no father was there
The child was wet with dew.
The mire was deep, & the child did weep
And away the vapour flew.


Blake is the king of prophets, so long as I am prepared to receive the answer I don't want or will never accept. This is the kind of poem that leads people to hanging witches or drowning in bogs. And yet, of course, it is a terrible honesty. That "vapour." Where does it fly now?

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