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Poem by William Blake
To the Accuser Who Is the God of This World
Truly, my Satan, thou art but a Dunce, And dost not know the Garment of the Man. Every Harlot was a Virgin once, Nor canst thou ever change Kate into Nan. Tho’ thou art Worship’d by the Names Divine Of Jesus and Jehovah, thou are still The Son of Morn in weary Night’s decline, The lost Traveller’s Dream under the Hill.
William Blake's other poems:
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