Monday 30 January 2023

Be not conformed

 


Just sitting in McDonalds with a coffee. Musing. This morning I took a peep at one of my Blooks, which consists of various notes and quotes I had made over a period of about three years - from various books. All in my cyber notebook.

The Blook begins with a few quotes of Albert Camus, the French so-called "existentialist". He was the man who said that he would "like to drive out of this world a God who has come into it with dissatisfaction and a preference for futile sufferings". I've always remembered that quote and had no need to look it up.

This time the quote that caught my eye, my mind/heart, was from Camus's book "The Rebel" and his words brought to mind the New Testament verse from the book of Romans written by St Paul:-

"And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God." (I love the cadences of the KJV)




In The Rebel (1951), Camus argues that perpetual opposition is what brings about a reaffirmation of life in the midst of mass conformity and his words, the quote, is:-

Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to the essence of being.”

I think, as one who suffers from mental health issues, that those issues do have a positive. This is simply that we are very unlikely to "conform" to a world that has brought us to such a state. Rebellion is more likely. We just need belief, strength, faith, trust.

We are all part of the world and therefore, at least as I see it, it is not a case of "us" against "them", but also a case of recognising our own part in the whole sad mess.

But anyway, that is all. An image here that I chose to accompany Camus's words in my Blook....




Wednesday 25 January 2023

Wittgenstein

 



One of the 20th centuries great philosophers. 


A pretty intense looking guy, and there are stories of him wielding a poker when in argument with another philosopher with whom he disagreed. Possibly untrue, but looking at the snap above I certainly wouldn't pick an argument with him.

Born in Austria in 1889, to VERY wealthy parents, but gave all his inheritance away to other family members and lived frugally. Fought in WW2 in the Austrian army and knew some fairly tough times in the front line, POW and such. Ended up in Cambridge at the University, a protege of Bertrand Russell who bowed to his more powerful intellect.




It was during his war service that Ludwig wrote his first book (in fact his only book published in his lifetime) which has the eyecatching title "Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus". Reading up on this there are various ways of understanding this text, with many disagreeing as to what Ludwig actually meant. But then, apparently he disagreed with it himself later in life and his "Philosophical Investigations" were published posthumously, in part retracting some of the views expressed in the Tracticus.




Anyway, my interest follows from another Philosopher, Emmanuel Kant saying that the human being was one who could ask questions that cannot in fact be answered in any definitive way. Wittgenstein developed this, in as much as he claimed that all the great questions of philosophy in effect could only be answered in ways that strict logic could show were nonsensical, or as merely tautologies. Such questions of "meaning" were not rejected as pointless, but he asserted that no definitive answer could ever be given.




Yet although "answers" cannot be expressed in words (logically) they can be shown, and here we arrive at the very first line of the Tao te Ching:- ‘The Tao that can be expressed is not the eternal Tao’ and the subsequent insight that the Tao (the source, Reality) can only be shared, but not divided/dissected/known logically.

Anyway, Bertrand Russell was compelled to say, of the Tracticus, that "Mr Wittgenstein manages to say a good deal about what cannot be said", which says it all!

I would love to know what Ludwig would have made of the Madhyamika and of the writings of Dogen, but as far as I know he never knew of them. But they seem to revolve around the very same thing. IE. That truth can be lived but not thought; shown, but not expressed (in words)

Anyway, that's it for now. Sighs of relief! A bit disjointed, tapping away in McDonalds then stopping, then more at home. Grandchildren swirling about. Buses late!





Related Quotes:-


Wittgenstein’s philosophical psychology undermined the Cartesian, empiricist and behaviourist traditions. In place of the Cartesian res cogitans – a spiritual substance which is the bearer of psychological properties, Wittgenstein put the human being – a psychophysical unity, not an embodied anima – a living creature in the stream of life. For it is human beings, not minds, who perceive and think, have desires and act, feel joy and sorrow. By contrast with the Cartesian and empiricist conception of the mental as an inner realm of subjective experience contingently connected with bodily behaviour, Wittgenstein conceived of the mental as essentially manifest in the forms of human behaviour which give expression to ‘the inner’. While the Cartesians and empiricists alike thought of the inner as ‘private’ and truly known only to its introspecting subject, Wittgenstein denied that introspection is a faculty of ‘inner sense’ or a source of knowledge of private experience at all.

(From "Wittgenstein" by Peter Hacker)


I know that queer things happen in this world. It’s one of the few things I’ve really learned in my life

 (Wittgenstein)


Death is not an event in life: we do not live to experience death. If we take eternity to mean not infinite temporal duration but timelessness, then eternal life belongs to those who live in the present.

(Wittgenstein)



Firewood becomes ash. Ash cannot become firewood again. However, we should not view ash as after and firewood as before. We should know that firewood dwells in the dharma position of firewood and has its own before and after. Although before and after exist, past and future are cut off. Ash stays in the position of ash, with its own before and after. As firewood never becomes firewood again after it has burned to ash, there is no return to living after a person dies. However, in Buddha Dharma it is an unchanged tradition not to say that life becomes death. Therefore we call it no-arising. It is the established way of buddhas’ turning the Dharma wheel not to say that death becomes life. Therefore, we call it no-perishing. Life is a position in time; death is also a position in time. This is like winter and spring. We don’t think that winter becomes spring, and we don’t say that spring becomes summer.

(Dogen, lines from "Genjokoan")

Monday 23 January 2023

William Blake





William Blake. I won't describe him as artist, poet and mystic, because some seem to think "mystic" has to do with pulling rabbits out of a hat - which just goes to show. So, artist and poet. And a bit of a nutter. He claimed to speak with angels, this among his many visions, and when his brother died he said his saw his soul rising up from the body, ever upwards, "clapping his hands with joy". 

Way back when I had little love for poetry (meeting only boring quatrains in school that spoke of the glories of British Empire builders strutting the poop deck, or being buried with all honours, bugles playing sad laments - not really my sort of stuff. Maybe if I had known some Spike Milligan it might have all been different) but did read a bit of this fine wordsmith Malcolm Muggeridge, who often weaved into his writings a few couplets of William Blake. I was quite taken by them and once, seeing a cheap copy of "The Portable Blake" I invested. Such is life. As Keith Richards has said, all he wants on his gravestone is:- "He passed it on". The Blues that is, not the cocaine when busted by the police.





Well, whatever, I found many of the couplets quoted by Malcolm Muggeridge to have originated from Blake's "Auguries of Innocence", as quoted in full in a previous blog. One such I have always remembered as:-

"The widows mite is worth much more

Than all the gold on Afric's shore"

Which is not quite right, but does the job.

William Blake was a man of vision and of the imagination. He saw the world being ushered in by the Newtonian "billiard ball" universe as soul destroying. When Blake painted Newton he is depicted as circumscribing the world with a compass, another way of Blake suggesting the "mind forged manacles" which represented for him pure self-limitation and the denigration of the human imagination. Obviously, we still live in a Newtonian universe and we haven't caught up with Einstein et al.

"May God us keep From Single vision & Newtons sleep."







A poem of Blakes on the same theme is "Mock on, Mock on".....

Mock on, Mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau;
Mock on, Mock on, 'tis all in vain.
You throw the sand against the wind,
And the wind blows it back again.

And every sand becomes a Gem
Reflected in the beams divine;
Blown back, they blind the mocking Eye,
But still in Israel's paths they shine.

The Atoms of Democritus
And Newton's Particles of light
Are sands upon the Red sea shore
Where Israel's tents do shine so bright.

But getting back to mysticism, rabbits and hats.......

Mystic:-definition

a person who seeks by contemplation and self-surrender to obtain unity with or absorption into the Deity or the absolute, or who believes in the spiritual apprehension of truths that are beyond the intellect.

I think William Blake can somehow be shoved into that definition, but he was more of a one off.

His "social conscience" (for want of better words) belied any thought of his own mysticism being in any way other-worldly.  He saw the strands of realities that led inevitably to young children being used as chimney sweeps, that led to the hypocrisies of the Poor House, and raged against them. 

John Higgs, an admirer, has written well of Blake's "visions". See "William Blake v The World".....

Spoiler Alert:- Blake wins.






Many of William Blake's best lyrical poems can be found in his "Songs of Innocence and Experience", songs that show the "two contrary states of the human soul."

These "Songs" are found as pairs, one of "Innocence" and one of "Experience", as in:-

The Lamb

Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing wooly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice!
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee

Little Lamb I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb I'll tell thee!
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
Little Lamb God bless thee.
Little Lamb God bless thee.




The corresponding song of experience is The Tyger (which often stands alone in examples of Blake's poems - "Tyger" is Blake's spelling of Tiger. His spelling was idiosyncratic to say the least!)

The Tyger

Tyger Tyger, 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, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat.
What dread hand? & 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 water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Obviously the two poems, as a pair, ask profound questions. But I mentioned the "social conscience" of Blake, and this is found in another pair of poems from the "Songs", both called "Holy Thursday".

The poems are about an annual event held in London in the early 19th century when the orphans/unwanted children of the Poor House were paraded through the streets of London by their elders and "betters", and taken to St Paul's Cathedral where they took part in a Service, singing hymns.





The song 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

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

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

The song 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!

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

Relating "innocence" and "experience" as a simple contrast doesn't really cover it for me. It rather involves our whole perception of the world around us, our grasp of ethics. And more.






Another pair of poems, "The Divine Image".


Of Innocence:-

          To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
          All pray in their distress;
          And to these virtues of delight
          Return their thankfulness.

          For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
          Is God, our Father dear,
          And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
          Is man, His child and care.

          For Mercy has a human heart,
          Pity a human face,
          And Love, the human form divine,
          And Peace, the human dress.

          Then every man, of every clime,
          That prays in his distress,
          Prays to the human form divine,
          Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

          And all must love the human form,
          In heathen, Turk, or Jew;
          Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell
          There God is dwelling too.

Of Experience:-

               Cruelty has a Human Heart 
               And Jealousy a Human Face 
               Terror the Human Form Divine 
               And Secrecy, the Human Dress 

               The Human Dress, is forged Iron 
               The Human Form, a fiery Forge. 
               The Human Face, a Furnace seal'd 
               The Human Heart, its hungry Gorge.


Or, to add a little Homily to be reflected upon......"Be not conformed to this world" (Romans 12:2)

  




Finally, a last poem. 


Can I see anothers woe,
And not be in sorrow too.
Can I see anothers grief,
And not seek for kind relief.

Can I see a falling tear
And not feel my sorrows share,
Can a father see his child,
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd.

Can a mother sit and hear,
An infant groan an infant fear—
No no never can it be.
Never never can it be.

And can he who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small birds grief & care
Hear the woes that infants bear—

And not sit beside the nest
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near
Weeping tear on infants tear.

And not sit both night & day,
Wiping all our tears away.
O! no never can it be.
Never never can it be.

He doth give his joy to all.
He becomes an infant small.
He becomes a man of woe
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not, thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy maker is not by.
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy maker is not near.

O! he gives to us his joy,
That our grief he may destroy
Till our grief is fled & gone
He doth sit by us and moan













Amazing Grace





 Desire is effort. Will. If "enlightenment" (whatever we want to call it) is the bottom line, then what is the scope of effort? What is given, what is earned. If "earned" in any way, what of "grace"?

Some Christian sects assert that God arbitrarily elects some to salvation. Pure undiluted grace. And heaven help those not so elected! No arguments. God does what He wants (always a great big HE in this context and for those sects - the mere thought of a She, a mother, and that whole line of thought becomes more and more absurd)

Then you have the lines from "Amazing Grace", "twas grace that taught my heart to fear and grace my fears relieved". Hearing such, I've always thought......" Hey, why not cut out the middleman" and save a lot of bother? In fact, save any "creation" at all, any vale of tears. Simply decree a state of misery and one of joy and throw sufficient numbers in each. Then shut the doors and look for your next project. 






Dogen, the zen master, was troubled by the Mahayana teaching of "Original Enlightenment". If we are all born in such a state, why did past masters study the scriptures so assiduously? Why did they study at all? Why did the Buddha keep meditating after his own enlightenment? "Out of compassion for the world" he said. Suffering. We suffer, no matter the conundrums created by our feeble attempts at logic. 

But, "cutting out the middleman". Why is there a middleman? Why anything at all? I think we can dispense with logic. It was never my strong point anyway.

Koans:-

Why is a cat when it spins?

What is the sound of one hand clapping?

A clearly enlightened person falls into the well. How is this so?

Just as I have thought that the entire Bible is a form of Roschach Test, I see the Cosmos, Reality-as-is, as a giant Koan. Reality is beyond logic, yet what we see is what we get, which has its own strange logic, even ethics if we want to push it (but not too far) "We are what we understand" as Dogen said. Nothing in the entire universe is hidden, nothing is concealed. The present moment is the only moment, present "practice" is all, yet there is a movement toward Buddha. A deepening intimacy. Reality will always reveal more as it forever unfolds into novelty. 





Sorry, I am waffling. Rambling. I genuinely never meant to write so much, but I sit in McDonalds with my white coffee (just £1.29, what a bargain) and already I feel some of my morning blues evaporating. Therapeutic. 

 "Then, there is no suffering?" "That there is suffering, this I know"

Be kind. Love everything. 

(Oh, I am progressing with Thomas Mann's "Joseph and his Brothers". I would recommend it. Heavy going yet in a strange way, quite light. I just wish the font was larger)

Of Wisdom and Stupidity

 





After my eyecatching title (yawn...... ) I would like to mention a really good book for anyone still interested in what is called "spirituality" in todays consumer driven society, full of dubious "celebrities" of all shades and behaviours.

(Yes, I'm waffling as usual, just glad that it is monday and that sunday - my day of deepest gloom - is behind me)

Anyway, the book is:-

"The Spirituality of Imperfection: Storytelling and the Journey to Wholeness: Storytelling and the Search for meaning"

First encountered many years ago and it first taught me the sheer poverty of "perfection" and any search for it, which has certainly saved me a lot of bother. The book is loosely based upon the AA Twelve Steps Programme, but "loosely" is certainly the right word. I have no problem with alcohol myself (that is, apart from often not being able to afford it....ha ha) so the structure of the book is obviously unimportant.

It contains stories from right across the spectrum of our world's Faith Traditions, but also much from the secular realm. A very wise book.





But getting to the point of this thread (there doesn't really need to be one given how therapeutic I find waffling away is) near the end of this book was a quote of a theologian called Hugh Kerr, which was:-

All wisdom is plagiarism - only stupidity is original.

Now I think that this is the wrong way round (or is it "around"?) I tend to think that we often pick up many of our thoughts and habits of mind simply from the sad world around us and little by little we conform to it, begin to ape what is so often the stupidity of others; this now considered our "own". We all have our own stupidities it is true, yet surely they are hardly original?

But wisdom? Wisdom as the Source, the ground of Reality; wisdom, the constant advance into novelty, radical freedom, not tied to the past (beyond redeeming it)

So, I would say:- Stupidity is plagiarism - only wisdom is original.

Well, what do others think? What is stupidity? What is wisdom? What is plagiarism? What is original?

All opinions will be reflected upon and considered.




Just to finish, having mentioned the book and it's host of stories, here is one (told from memory as I do not have the book to hand) It comes from the Buddhist tradition, specifically zen....

A zen master liked to begin each day with a walk around the village. One morning he heard cries of deep suffering coming from one of the households. Entering he found that they were lamenting the death of a loved one. Immediately he sat down beside them and joined in with their weeping. At this moment one of the master's desciples passed by and looked in. Seeing his master weeping he exclaimed:- "Surely master, you are beyond this sort of thing?" to which the master said, between his sobs, " It is this that puts me beyond it. "

Tuesday 17 January 2023

Blake and Shelley - Googling in McDonalds

 





Just googling around. One longish poem of Blake's that I like is "Auguries of Innocence". I quoted the beginning and end of this poem previously. I put "Auguries of Innocence" into the Google Image search box and found an image of one of Blake's notebooks, a page where he was creating/composing the poem. Crossings out, better words coming into mind. The act of creation.

Way back I went to an exhibition at the British Museum. It was on the Romantic Poets I think (but not sure) and I always remember one exhibit, a notebook of Percy Bysshe Shelley, open on the page where he had written/composed "When The Lamp is Shattered". Up until then I knew little of Shelley. Just another musty old poet of a bygone age composing quadrants in some secluded attic. Little did I know that he was more the Boy George of his age! Escapades with young women, thrown out of university for such things as "atheism", slurred by the Establishment.

But anyway, seeing his notebook, it was a revelation, digging deep. There in touching distance a little book that Shelley himself had carried in his pocket, had on his desk, written in. And words crossed out, others put in. Once again, the act of creation. Since then I have read one or two biographies of Shelley. We live and learn.

Well, anyway, some associated words and images, if anyone is interested.

The act of creation, form emerging from chaos, the uncarved block of the Tao...





Shelley, "When the Lamp is Shattered":-

When the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead—
When the cloud is scattered
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendor
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute:—
No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruined cell,
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possessed.
O Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its passions will rock thee
As the storms rock the ravens on high;
Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home
Leave thee naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come

Any word could have been different.....we touch Shelley's heart, across time.





And "Auguries of Innocence" by Blake......some beautiful couplets to fill the void...

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour
A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage
A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thr' all its regions
A dog starvd at his Masters Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State





A Horse misusd upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fibre from the Brain does tear
A Skylark wounded in the wing
A Cherubim does cease to sing
The Game Cock clipped and armed for fight
Does the Rising Sun affright
Every Wolfs and Lions howl
Raises from Hell a Human Soul
The wild deer, wandring here and there
Keeps the Human Soul from Care


The Lamb misusd breeds Public Strife
And yet forgives the Butchers knife
The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that wont Believe
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbelievers fright
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be belovd by Men
He who the Ox to wrath has movd
Shall never be by Woman lovd


The wanton Boy that kills the Fly
Shall feel the Spiders enmity
He who torments the Chafers Sprite
Weaves a Bower in endless Night
The Catterpiller on the Leaf
Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly
For the Last Judgment draweth nigh





He who shall train the Horse to War
Shall never pass the Polar Bar
The Beggars Dog and Widows Cat
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat
The Gnat that sings his Summers Song
Poison gets from Slanders tongue
The poison of the Snake and Newt
Is the sweat of Envys Foot
The poison of the Honey Bee
Is the Artists Jealousy
The Princes Robes and Beggars Rags
Are Toadstools on the Misers Bags
A Truth thats told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent






It is right it should be so
Man was made for Joy and Woe
And when this we rightly know
Thro the World we safely go
Joy & woe are woven fine
A Clothing for the soul divine
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine
The Babe is more than swadling Bands
Throughout all these Human Lands





Tools were made and Born were hands
Every Farmer Understands
Every Tear from Every Eye
Becomes a Babe in Eternity
This is caught by Females bright
And returnd to its own delight
The Bleat the Bark Bellow and Roar
Are Waves that Beat on Heavens Shore








The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath
Writes Revenge in realms of Death
The Beggars Rags fluttering in Air
Does to Rags the Heavens tear
The Soldier armd with Sword and Gun
Palsied strikes the Summers Sun
The poor Mans Farthing is worth more
Than all the Gold on Africs Shore
One Mite wrung from the Labrers hands
Shall buy and sell the Misers Lands
Or if protected from on high
Does that whole Nation sell and buy





He who mocks the Infants Faith
Shall be mockd in Age and Death
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall neer get out
He who respects the Infants faith
Triumphs over Hell and Death
The Childs Toys and the Old Mans Reasons
Are the Fruits of the Two seasons
The Questioner who sits so sly
Shall never know how to Reply
He who replies to words of Doubt
Doth put the Light of Knowledge out






The Strongest Poison ever known
Came from Caesars Laurel Crown
Nought can Deform the Human Race
Like to the Armours iron brace
When Gold and Gems adorn the Plow
To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow
A Riddle or the Crickets Cry
Is to Doubt a fit Reply
The Emmets Inch and Eagles Mile
Make Lame Philosophy to smile





He who Doubts from what he sees
Will neer Believe do what you Please
If the Sun and Moon should Doubt
Theyd immediately Go out
To be in a Passion you Good may Do
But no Good if a Passion is in you
The Whore and Gambler by the State
Licencd build that Nations Fate
The Harlots cry from Street to Street
Shall weave Old Englands winding Sheet
The Winners Shout the Losers Curse
Dance before dead Englands Hearse







Every Night and every Morn
Some to Misery are Born
Every Morn and every Night
Some are Born to sweet delight
Some are Born to sweet delight
Some are Born to Endless Night
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light
God Appears and God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day


(William Blake's original spelling)





Happy days

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