Oh why was I born with a different face
Why was I not born like the rest of my race
When I look each one starts
When I speak, I offend
Then I'm silent and passive and lose every friend
Improvement makes straight roads
But the crooked roads without improvement
Are roads of genius
I went to the Garden of Love
And saw what I had never seen
A chapel was built in the midst
Where I used to play on the green
And the gates of this chapel were shut
And "Thou Shalt Not" writ over the door
So I turned to the Garden Of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore
And I saw it was filled with graves
And thombstones where flowers should be
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds
And binding with briars, my joys and desires

William Blake

1 comentário:

Anónimo disse...

O excesso de alegria chora, o excesso de dor ri.