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THE POEMS OF WILLIAM BLAKE.
He came to the desert of London town,
Grey miles long;
He wandered up and he wandered down,
Singing a quiet song.
He came to the desert of London town,
Mirk miles broad;
He wandered up and he wandered down,
Ever alone with God.
There were thousands and thousands of human kind
In this desert of brick and stone:
But some were deaf and some were blind,
And he was there alone.
At length the good hour came; he died,
As he had lived, alone:
He was not missed from the desert wide,
Perhaps he was found at the Throne.
1865.
CHISWICK PRESS:—C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT,
CHANCERY LANE.
