Bifröst, Bifröst, burning bright
In all colors of the light;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
.
In what distant deeps or skies,
Burnt the fire of thy frame?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could bend the colors so apart?
And when thy arc began to rise,
What dread hand? & what dread eyes?
What the hammer? what the fan,
In what furnace was thy span?
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?
apologies to William Blake
Bifröst, Bifröst, burning bright
In all colors of the light;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
.
In what distant deeps or skies,
Burnt the fire of thy frame?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
.
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could bend the colors so apart?
And when thy arc began to rise,
What dread hand? & what dread eyes?
.
What the hammer? what the fan,
In what furnace was thy span?
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?
.
Bifröst, Bifröst, burning bright
In all colors of the light;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
.
apologies to William Blake