| The Cloud |
| (O cloud well appointed!—Blake) |
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I do not know how you can shun
His sight who sees himself a clod
Whose blindness still outstares the sun
And gazes on the hidden God.
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I do not know how you can hate
A heart so set about with fire,
A sword so linked with heavy fate
And broken with unknown desire.
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I see your eyes with glory blaze
And splendour bind your dusky hair,
And ever through the nights and days
My soul must struggle with despair.
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Your beauty must forever be
My cloud of anguish, and your breath
Raise sorrow like the surging sea
Around the windy wastes of death.
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