I read a little William Blake today.
If only we could as he did, he who glimpsed a world, a universe, in a grain of sand, in a wild flower, and he who held infinity in the palm of his hand. Or perhaps only sought to. I certainly have endured “Eternity in an hour” while waiting in line at the post office.
To see everything in an instance, and hold it only for as long as that.
Poetry should always be this romantic, this foolish, I think.