There is a book of poetry on the shelf next to our dining room that my daughter will bring to me sometime during dinner that I might read a few verses after dinner. Yes, it does sound like something out of Little House on the Prairie.

The book is the collected poems of William Blake. Within it there is an almost chronological progression of his poetry moving for the songs of innocence to songs of experience to much more epic content.

There is one poem that, in typical Conley fashion, I have become really obsessed with a poem that has struck me because of both its form and content. Take a look:Continue reading→