From the Book of Urizen, by Wm. Blake

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In fierce anguish & quenchless flames
To the desarts and rocks he ran raging
To hide, but he could not; combining
He dug mountains & hills in vast strength.
He piled them in incessant labour,
In howlings & pangs & fierce madness
Long periods in burning fires labouring
Till hoary, and age-broke, and aged,
In despair and the shadows of death.
The Book of Urizen, 5.19-5.27

Ages on ages roll'd over him!
 In stony sleep ages roll'd over him!
 Like a dark waste stretching chang'able
 By earthquakes riv'n, belching sullen fires
 On ages roll'd ages in ghastly
  Sick torment; around him in whirlwinds
 Of darkness the eternal Prophet howl'd
 Beating still on his rivets of iron
 Pouring sodor of iron; dividing
 The horrible night into watches.

And Urizen (so his eternal name)
 His prolific delight obscurd more & more
 In dark secresy hiding in surgeing
 Sulphureous fluid his phantasies
 The Eternal Prophet heavd the dark bellows.
 And turn'd restless the tongs; and the hammer
Incessant beat; forging chains new & new
Numb'ring with links, hours days & years

The eternal mind bounded began to roll
Eddies of wrath ceaseless round & round
And the sulphureous foam surgeing thick
Settled, a lake, bright, & shining clear:
White as the snow on the mountains cold.

Forgetfulness, dumbness, necessity!
In chains of the mind locked up,
Like fetters of ice shrinking together.
Disorganiz'd, rent from Eternity,
Los beat on his fetters of iron:
And heated his furnaces & pour'd
Iron sodor and sodor of brass

Restless turnd the immortal inchain'd
Heaving dolorous! anguish'd! unbearable
Till a roof shaggy wild inclos'd
In an orb, his fountain of thought.

In a horrible dreamful slumber;
Like the linked infernal chain
A vast Spine writh'd in torment
Upon the winds; shooting pain'd
Ribs, like a bending cavern
And bones of solidness, froze
Over all his nerves of joy.
And a first Age passed over,
And a state of dismal woe

In harrowing fear rolling round;
His nervous brain shot branches
Round the branches of his heart
On high into two little orbs
And fixed in two little caves
Hiding carefully from the wind,
His Eyes beheld the deep,
And a third Age passed over;
And a state of dismal woe.

The pangs of hope began
In heavy pain striving, struggling.
Two Ears in close volutions.
From beneath his orbs of vision
Shot spiring out and petrified
As they grew, And a fourth Age passed
And a state of dismal woe.
Ibid., 13.10-13.25

Various Blake lines and some from Jerusalem.
Background created by Johanna Hansdotter Sundberg, with lines from Auguries of Innocence.

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