Blake

I am no intense fan of William Blake [1757-1827], but one of his famous poems shows you his prowess--"The Tiger". It's got this edge of strangeness to it that almost makes you want to take a step back, or at least ask him what he's talking about. Read it once, then go off and get a coffee or can of pop and come back. The second time you read it, you may get a different impression.

It seems to veer right off the road into a very worrying place, escalating faster and faster.

Here it is, and here's more to read:

THE TIGER

Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And, when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?