Blake

Where will the rose in your hand exist that lavishes, without knowing, intimate gifts? Not in colour, because the flower is blind, nor in the sweet inexhaustible fragrance, nor in the weight of the petal. Those things are sparse and remote echoes. The real rose is more elusive. Perhaps a pillar or a battle or a firmament of angels, or an infinite world, secret and necessary, or the joy of a god we will not see or a silver planet in another sky or a terrible archetype lacking the form of the rose.