The Bloodshed is spread as high as Death's cold stirrup — Transmuted Lead pours out like red and gold Syrup In a flaming Creek from the Philosopher’s Wound: I am sorrow’d, sailing to seek my Father’s Tomb — I only know he is buried in Old Europe. Each Tear pierces the Sky and falls as a Gold Pearl: A bewitch’d Heart burnt to death and cuff’d to a Stave. I am searching the Earth to bless my Mother’s Grave — I only know she is buried in the Old World. Rip out the beaten Mouth and bleed the Sun with Fangs — Bones are thrown and sown in Calvary’s sunken Lanes: Harrowing a leaden Hell for an Alkahest To dissolve and drain the Sorrow out of my Chest: I only know I’m buried where it always rains. I am sailing to seek your Face in the deep Dusk, Descending down the Tree of Life to Death (and worse): Inter the bright Sunlight and all Breath in a Hearse. Your Heart is a Holy Spark in the World’s cheap Husk. The crimson Footprints of the Crow strewn in deep Snow — The blazing Fires fall — the Eyes like Wounds weep low: I saw the Light-fill’d Tree of Life hollow and crack’d — The Nightfall is a bleeding Knife polish’d and black — The Days recede and die — the dark-red Moons creep slow. Our welling Veins drain us to sleep — we nod and nod: The dark Seraphs of Starlight are black and polish’d. My Folk perish in the Night from lack of Knowledge Of themselves and of their saints — of their gods and God.