"Let us be clear", the prosecutor said.
"When this man here, describes our daily sun
he doesn't say, I see a disk that's red
and guinea sized which sets at dusk. He's spun

this truth to be, 'a gleaming angel choir
in satin white with wings of sculpted gold
all singing 'Glory, Glory' ever higher...'
The dangers to our church, just can't be told."

When William Blake stood up, he fixed his eyes
upon the man beneath the powdered wig.
A slight ironic smile for the disguise,
then said with feeling, " I don't care a fig

for what you say. And yes, its true I spoke
about the choir. All men possess a way
to make the mundane sacred and evoke
a magic in the mind to gild each day."

More quietly he said, " the sun's no more
a guinea, than a choir." The Bishop's nod
made Blake's tormentor's sense of triumph soar.
He thought, "he'll soon be with his singing God."