In the Alleys of the night sounds like tiger, tiger burning bright. I have though always like William Blake, not in the godly kinda way but the way the words are put together.
I was in the alleys the last night and didn’t walk to the spot were the dog died. Skirted round it and ran back to the edge to the road. My child cried tonight because of that dog. We merge in our sadness in our knowledge that the dog is doggone, which is an euphemism for God damn. We loved our dogie.
Tiger Tiger. 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 seize 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?
Tiger Tiger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?