Tis Friday…

Late to bed and early to rise… visited friends last night, one leaving town, and another just recovering from a medical situation. Pizza, a glass of wine, laughter and a few tears. I got to practice my massage techniques, and to learn a few new pressure points.

Up early and leaving soon, so this is a short sweet one.

On The Menu:

Leonard at the Isle of Wight

The Links

Poetry: William Blake

Have a good one,



The Links

A subtle assimilation?

Scribbles in the stonework of Rosslyn

The Key to Atlantis: The Magic Mushroom

Neolithic stone carving of Big Dipper discovered in northwest China


Poetry: William Blake


Youth of delight! come hither

And see the opening morn,

Image of Truth new-born.

Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason,

Dark disputes and artful teazing.

Folly is an endless maze;

Tangled roots perplex her ways;

How many have fallen there!

They stumble all night over bones of the dead;

And feel–they know not what but care;

And wish to lead others, when they should be led.



To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,

All pray in their distress,

And to these virtues of delight

Return their thankfulness.

For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,

Is God our Father dear;

And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,

Is man, His child and care.

For Mercy has a human heart;

Pity, a human face;

And Love, the human form divine:

And Peace the human dress.

Then every man, of every clime,

That prays in his distress,

Prays to the human form divine:

Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

And all must love the human form,

In heathen, Turk, or Jew.

Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell,

There God is dwelling too.



I laid me down upon a bank,

Where Love lay sleeping;

I heard among the rushes dank

Weeping, weeping.

Then I went to the heath and the wild,

To the thistles and thorns of the waste;

And they told me how they were beguiled,

Driven out, and compelled to the chaste.

I went to the Garden of Love,

And saw what I never had seen;

A Chapel was built in the midst,

Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,

And ‘Thou shalt not’ writ over the door;

So I turned to the Garden of Love

That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,

And tombstones where flowers should be;

And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,

And binding with briars my joys and desires.


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