William Blake & March Lambs

 Oh little lamb thy spring-time play
With poetry I'll while away

 And when the stars throw down their spears
This afternoon, though wrapped in years,

 And in Time's furnace burning bright
Shall fixed remain in mem'ry's sight.

 Oh little lamb, with fleece not gold,
What secret wrath have you been told?

Whew, has he left?  Then I can say
Thank God that poet's gone away?