A couple of days ago I came upon an ancient, yellowed, drink-stained, battered photocopy of William Blake’s poem among my old documents. I was happy to rediscover it. I no longer remember how I first came upon this poem in my long ago, but I recall how fascinated I was with it back then, how I read it over and over and over – trying to get a handle on the exact message the mystic Mr. Blake was conveying. I could not entirely agree with the sentiment as expressed and I am sure if I was equipped then to rework someone’s poem “after” them, or knew that such a thing was even permissible, I would have given that poem a treatment. I’ve revisited it tonight because I am writing about forgiveness. I’m sure long passed William Blake and the keepers of his legacy will not mind me sharing his work in its entirety.
A Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend;I told my wrath, my wrath did end.I was angry with my foe:I told it not, my wrath did grow.And I waterd it in fears,Night & morning with my tears:And I sunned it with smiles,And with soft deceitful wiles.And it grew both day and night.Till it bore an apple bright.And my foe beheld it shine,And he knew that it was mine.And into my garden stole,When the night had veild the pole;In the morning glad I see;My foe outstretched beneath the tree.