The Country Of Har

For the Centenary of Blake’s “Songs of Innocence”

Once a hundred years ago There was a light in London town, For an angel of the snow Walked her street sides up and down.

As a visionary boy He put forth his hand to smite Songs of innocence and joy From the crying chords of night, Like a muttering of thunder Heard beneath the polar star; For his soul was all a-wonder At the calling vales of Har.

He, a traveller by day And a pilgrim of the sun, Took his uncompanioned way Where the journey is not done.

Where no mortal might aspire His clear heart was set to climb, To the uplands of desire And the river wells of time.

Home he wandered to the valley Where the springs of morning are, And the sea-bright cohorts rally On the twilit plains of Har.

There he found the Book of Thel In the lily-garth of bliss, Fashioned, how no man can tell, As a white windflower is:

Like the lulling of a sigh Uttered in the trembling grass, When a shower is gone by, And the sweeping shadows pass,--

Through the hyacinthine weather, Wheel them down without a jar,-- Heaving all the dappled heather In the streaming vales of Har.

There was manna in the rain; And above the rills, a voice: “Son of mine, dost thou complain? I will make thee to rejoice.

“Thou shalt be a child to men, With confusion on thy speech; And the worlds within thy ken Shall not lie within thy reach.

“But the rainbirds shall discover, And the daffodils unbar, Quiet waters for their lover On the shining plains of Har.

“April rain and iron frost Shall make flowers to thy hand; Every field thy feet have crossed Shall revive from death’s command.

“Hunting with a leash of wind Through the corners of the earth, Take the hounds of Spring to find The forgotten trails of mirth;

“For the lone child-heart is dying Of a love no time can mar, Hearing not a voice replying From the gladder vales of Har.

“Flame thy heart forth! Yet, no haste: Have not I prepared for thee The king’s chambers of the East And the wind halls of the sea?

“Be a gospeller of things Nowhere written through the wild, With that gloaming call of Spring’s, When old secrets haunt the child.

“Let the bugler of my going Wake no clarion of war; For the paper reeds are blowing On the river plains of Har.”

Centuries of soiled renown To the roaring dark have gone: There is woe in London town, And a crying for the dawn.

April frost and iron rain Ripen the dead fruit of lust, And the sons of God remain The dream children of the dust,

For their heart hath in derision, And their jeers have mocked afar, The delirium of vision From the holy vales of Har.

Once in Autumn came a dream; The white Herald of the North, Faring West to ford my stream, Passed my lodge and bade me forth;

Glad I rose and went with him, With my shoulder in his hand; The auroral world grew dim, And the idle harvest land.

Then I saw the warder lifting From its berg the Northern bar, And eternal snows were drifting On the wind-bleak plains of Har.

“Listen humbly,” said my guide. “I am drear, for I am death,” Whispered Snow; but Wind replied, “I outlive thee by a breath,

I am Time.” And then I heard, Dearer than all wells of dew, One gray golden-shafted bird Hail the uplands; so I knew

Spring, the angel of our sorrow, Tarrying so seeming far, Should return with some long morrow In the calling vales of Har.