On Memory, Again...

My Muse, beautiful creature that she is, has a funny way of reminding me about things that have slipped my mind. Sometimes, these things come unbidden, like flashes of insight, only later discovered to be memory, sometimes they seem more deliberate, hints, here, there, until the memory swims lethargically from the dark depths, some long forgotten lake monster, surfacing to terrorize the locals.

I was reminded of this the other day:

THE TYGER (from Songs Of Experience)

By William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright 

In the forests of the night, 

What immortal hand or eye 

Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies 

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire? 


What the hand dare sieze the fire? 

And what shoulder, & what art. 


Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 


And when thy heart began to beat, 


What dread hand? & what dread feet? 

What the hammer? what the chain? 


In what furnace was thy brain? 


What the anvil? what dread grasp 


Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 


And watered heaven with their tears, 


Did he smile his work to see? 


Did he who made the Lamb make thee? 

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright 


In the forests of the night, 


What immortal hand or eye 

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Gentle Reader, did he who made the Lamb make thee? Did he make me, as well? Is it not alright, under such a plan, that we be different, perhaps as different as the tiger and the lamb (although I'd be happier, perhaps, comparing the tiger to a wolf, maybe)?

Did he smile his work to see, Gentle Reader?