My England.
May I ask?
That when death calls,
You'll caress
this poet.
Where his shadow falls,
On his grave,
Lay a rose
of deepest red,
Shed, just one
single tear,
For your loyal dead,
Pauper's grave
without cross
or marker stone.
Silent rest,
rest in peace
In your arms alone,
Entombed in
Blake's rhythmic
Green and pleasant land.
Steady him
securely,
Within your mighty hands
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