One minute I'm making an offhanded joke on Facebook about poetry and
the craziness that is the life of Tiger Woods these past few days, and the next minute I'm reading William Blake and thinking he was seeing into the Magic Golf Ball of a certain Tiger's future. Read Blake's "The Tiger" as if it's about Tiger Woodsgate and just try to tell me it's not true.
489. The Tiger
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
(William Blake. 1757–1827)
