An Ode To William Blake
An Ode To William
Blake
----------------------------------
He when Painted,
Printed or Wrote,
His face always wore
a grave grin.
THAT Soft in heart
and hand,
The sculptor, stones
had ever seen;
Sitting by the lonely-
lake’s shore
Portrayed the
playing cherubs.
For me his shop
would have been,
For Pope, Dryden’s
coffee
shop.
Loved who little-
boys, herders and
sheep,
And praised country
and for lambs prayed.
An artist lived there
unknown,
Unnoticed, ahead of
his time.
(contd...)
Copyright © Fayaz Bhat | Year Posted 2014
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