(TO FREDERICK SHIELDS, ON HIS SKETCH OF BLAKE'S WORK-ROOM AND DEATH-ROOM, 3, FOUNTAIN COURT, STRAND) THIS is the place. Even here the dauntless soul, The unflinching hand, wrought on; till in that nook, As on that very bed, his life partook New birth, and passed. Yon river's dusky shoal, Whereto the close-built coiling lanes unroll, Faced his work-window, whence his eyes would stare, Thought-wandering, unto nought that met them there, But to the unfettered irreversible goal. This cupboard, Holy of Holies, held the cloud Of his soul writ and limned; this other one, His true wife's charge, full oft to their abode Yielded for daily bread the martyr's stone, Ere yet their food might be that Bread alone, The words now home-speech of the mouth of God. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INSCRIPTIONS: 1. FOR A GROTTO by MARK AKENSIDE HILL-SIDE TREE by MAXWELL BODENHEIM TRUE UNTIL DEATH by ROBERT BURNS INTOXICATION by EMILY DICKINSON IDYLLS OF THE KING: GUINEVERE by ALFRED TENNYSON LONDON, 1802 (1) by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |