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rejoicing. And certainly, might not this poetic spill and spell be a slight reminiscence, a hint, of that glorious meeting of Hermes child, the fabled lyre maker who once upon an ancient time enchanted the divinity Apollo with his lyricisms during that ever-present lyric evergreen morning?
It is as if Blake’s Piper were the very Hermes, as if Blake’s child were the very innocent little Apollo (adumbrating him towards the Lamb’s song, the prophetic instant), the blissful deity of Poesy, Music, Prophecy, and Healing, in an inversion of roles, but nonetheless, there is beauty, much, much beauty and charm in this cheerful gathering near Mnemosyne’s Light. There is delight in the Apollonian child, so much sublime delight, a weeping delight. For in the Piper, he sees not Hermes, but Apollo.
Thus, the child and the Piper in the state of Innocence are the lamps of Apollonian memory, perhaps they dwell in Parnassus’ streams, that we shall not know, ye we do know that in the Piper’s spirit, there dwells the beauty of Poiesis, of the marriage of Prophecy, of song, of healing in the Lamb’s song: The Divine Word. Only in prophetic song, Holy Song, Holy Word, there is healing, the world’s healing.
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