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The one human being who I'd most like to sit down with and get to know even better has been dead since 1827. He lived his life in near total obscurity, his art and his poetry derided as the work of insanity - by those who stopped long enough to pay it any attention at all.
But, of course, he wasn't insane. He was different. He saw through and deep inside those things which nearly everyone else didn't even take note of, much less contemplate. He was as spiritual a person as any I have ever studied, but he hated religion so completely, he felt
compelled to invent and articulate his own intensely personal vision of the divine. So why do I bring this up today? Today is "Holy Thursday" and it is the subject of two of his most famous poems: One from his collection "Songs of Innocence" and the other from the complementary
collection "Songs of Experience." Both of these poems are contemplating/commenting on the same religious ceremony: The procession of orphaned children to St. Paul's in London which took place on Holy Thursday. I give you William Blake and I hope you take the time to look at these
From the "Songs of Innocence"
Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean
The children walking two & two in red & blue & green
Grey-headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow
Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean
The children walking two & two in red & blue & green
Grey-headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow
O what a multitude they seemd these flowers of London town
Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own
The hum of multitudes was there but multitudes of lambs
Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands
Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own
The hum of multitudes was there but multitudes of lambs
Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands
Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among
Beneath them sit the aged men wise guardians of the poor
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among
Beneath them sit the aged men wise guardians of the poor
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door
From "Songs of Experience"
Is this a holy thing to see,
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reducd to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
Is this a holy thing to see,
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reducd to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
And their sun does never shine.
And their fields are bleak & bare.
And their ways are fill'd with thorns.
It is eternal winter there.
For where-e'er the sun does shine,
And where-e'er the rain does fall:
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
And their fields are bleak & bare.
And their ways are fill'd with thorns.
It is eternal winter there.
For where-e'er the sun does shine,
And where-e'er the rain does fall:
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
In addition to being a poet, Blake was an artist, a professional engraver. He created unified pieces of multi-media, engraving and hand painting each individual plate. And so, each one he did over the course of 30 years was unique. Here is the "Yale Copy" of the "Innocence" poem
and here is the British Library's copy of the "Experience" poem
