To the revered Mister William Blake*:
In a plain book with narrow spine,
I gazed upon your color plates
And drank poems laced with rhyme,
Sipping lines for the first time.
But doesn't a choir sing together?
Yet the poet dies without a tether,
Words kneaded in peculiarity,
Never promising to last forever, 
Alas, your work escaped obscurity.

*William Blake is a posthumously famous poet. His theology cannot be trusted, 
but his talent is unquestionable. (One of my favorite poems by William Blake is 
"The Poison Tree.")