The Second Circle
William Blake: The Circle of the
God, having finished with his droll didactics,
stills the spinning winds:
the lovers fall to the ground
like swallows after a long migration,
alighting on the shore they'd given up.
Francesca remembers her daughter
and Paolo his two children. Their folly
is not to be excused by adolescence;
the madness heated their sluggish blood,
but even old fools may receive forgiveness.
They feel in their quivering muscles
a slackening of the unremitting drum,
the quickening of an unexpected season.
Further down, among the more benighted,
dawn more unlikely, more unlooked-for springs.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, David Callin would be
pleased to hear them.