Monday, October 01, 2007

London by William Blake

    I wander thro' each charter'd street,
    Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
    And mark in every face I meet
    Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

    In every cry of every Man,
    In every Infant's cry of fear,
    In every voice, in every ban,
    The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.

    How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
    Every black'ning Church appalls;
    And the hapless Soldier's sigh
    Runs in blood down Palace walls.

    But most thro' midnight streets I hear
    How the youthful Harlot's curse
    Blasts the new born Infant's tear,
    And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.


Roger said...

Don't you mean LONDON?

And are you trying to say something without saying it?

Don't mark too many people with weakness, woe, or the mind-forg'd manacles. It's bad.

Jason said...

What? That makes no sense, speaking of someone saying something without saying it...

Roger said...

I always say without saying...doesn't that go without saying?

Angela said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Angela said...

Good Lord...I feel like I'm right there watching you two bicker...

(Finally, a post with no typo.)

Jason said...

My head hurts

Roger said...

so I've decided that you are trying to bait me. Here's a better London from Blake's Jerusalem:

I behold London; a Human awful wonder of God! He says: Return, Albion, return! I give myself for thee: My Streets are my, Ideas of Imagination. Awake Albion, awake! and let us awake up together.
My Houses are Thoughts: my Inhabitants; Affections, The children of my thoughts, walking within my blood-vessels, Shut from my nervous form which sleeps upon the verge of Beulah In dreams of darkness, while my vegetating blood in veiny pipes, Rolls dreadful thro' the Furnaces of Los, and the Mills of Satan. For Albions sake, and for Jerusalem thy Emanation
I give myself, and these my brethren give themselves for Albion.

So spoke London, immortal Guardian!