Page:William Blake (Symons).djvu/88

 64 What is it that transfixes one in any couplet such as this:

It is no more than a nursery statement, there is not even an image in it, and yet it sings to the brain, it cuts into the very flesh of the mind, as if there were a great weight behind it. Is it that it is an arrow, and that it comes from so far, and with an impetus gathered from its speed out of the sky?

The lyric poet, every lyric poet but Blake, sings of love; but Blake sings of forgiveness:

Poets sing of beauty, but Blake says:

They sing of the brotherhood of men, but Blake points to the 'divine image':