William Blake vs. the world

The end of a golden string

Twofold always

I come to self annihilation

Without contraries is no progression

The tygers of wrath

Conversed not with devils

Once, only imagin'd

Seek love there

Their forms eternal exist

Appeard as one man

Green & pleasant land

When I speak I offend

My wrath did grow

Altogether hidden from the corporeal understanding

In love with the productions of time

The work of the devil

Very weak & an old man feeble & tottering

As a man, so he sees.