Maybe it’s true we’re trapped
In the psychological web
Of our childhood our upbringing
Our life’s experience

So that some are made
To crave fact and reason
While others can seek only impulse
And to hell with the insipid good

Blake rightly saw that
Reason is the bound
Or outward circumference of Energy
Who loved the shaping line

And although he saw that reason might usurp
The throne of rich imagination
And leave the world barren and cold
A universe of death

He never counterposed a world
Of roiling forces and particles
Indistinct
A rebirth of monstrous chaos

He knew that life energy delight
Which make existence tolerable
Lose their tang without the hale enclosure
Of sober rectitude