Blake

Oftimes I will stare upon a knot in a plank of wood until

I grow fearful of it. The Ghost within the wood

returns my stare with level eyes. Haughty & imperial,

It speaks to me a dialect of Red Indian, which sounds

to my ears as the English Tongue-for fiery pentecostal

are the ways of Knowing. Naked in the Garden

did we sing. Naked in Lambeth & Naked with the Angels

all summer we did converse, myself & Catherine.

The Angel Tongue 'twas English of a Pre-Lapsarian sort:

Such ecstasies within our words did we exchange!

Yet these States last but little time. The Abstract

Word replaces them & with Abjection doth remain

my Human Tincture, my fingertips night-blue with ink-

the Evidence of these my labors, Cain's indelible Mark.