From Milton a Poem

by William Blake

Thou seest the Constellations in the deep & wondrous Night:

They rise in order and continue their immortal courses

Upon the mountains & in vales with harp & heavenly song,

With flute & clarion: with cups & measures fill’d with foaming wine.

Glitt’ring the streams reflect the Vision of beatitude,

And the calm Ocean joys beneath & smooths his awful waves:

These are the Sons of Los, & these the Labourers of the Vintage.

Thou see’st the gorgeous clothed Flies that dance & sport in summer

Upon the sunny brooks & meadows: every one the dance

Knows in its intricate mazes of delight artful to weave:

Each one to sound his instruments of music in the dance.

To touch each other & recede: to cross & change & return.

These are the Children of Los. Thou seest the Trees on mountains:

The wind blows heavy, loud they thunder thro’ the darksom sky.

Uttering prophecies & speaking instructive words to the sons

Of men: These are the Sons of Los: These the Visions of Eternity.

But we see only as it were the hem of their garments

When with our vegetable eyes we view these wondrous Visions.