A Little Boy Lost

Nought loves another as itself,
Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to thought
A greater than itself to know.

'And, father, how can I love you
Or any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little bird
That picks up crumbs around the door.'

The Priest sat by and heard the child;
In trembling zeal he seized his hair,
He led him by his little coat,
And all admired the priestly care.

And standing on the altar high,
'Lo, what a fiend is here! said he:
'One who sets reason up for judge
Of our most holy mystery.'

The weeping child could not be heard,
The weeping parents wept in vain:
They stripped him to his little shirt,
And bound him in an iron chain,

And burned him in a holy place
Where many had been burned before;
The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such thing done on Albion's shore?

by William Blake

Comments (2)

But was it worth at all? To live and feel, and enjoy each moment of Life or to suffer... This life, yet was it still a life or a living death, or perhaps, a perishing life?
The writer has accepted his fate: this lady has lost her faith in him, but he reckons he has writen the truth, and is prepared to pay the price ah sadness is apon him but he soldiers on.