William Blake's Poison Tree Poem by Sidi Mahtrow

Alas, it had to end
For you see, it was my friend
That stole into my garden near
And took down the fruit, so dear.

A friend, a friend no more
That harvested from my daily store
And kept that which he felt to be his
Giving nothing in return, nay even a kiss.

So friend or foe, begone I say
If you have nothing to give, in any way
But see my art (and that of my wife so dear)
As nothing but etchings on plate, unclear.

For they offer a look into my soul
Which alas, in dirt grows cold
Still reveals the workings of the heart
In bringing forth, a masterpiece of art.

s