Upon the silent wings of night, he soared,
William Blake, a poet, a visionary, no more.
His art, his words, a beacon in the dark,
Now echoes softly, like a distant lark.
In realms unknown, his spirit finds its way,
Through celestial fields where angels play.
His mortal coil shed, his soul takes flight,
Embracing eternityâs serene, pure light.
The world he left, a canvas vast and wide,
Painted with dreams, with visions that abide.
His legacy, a timeless, golden thread,
Woven through hearts, through thoughts, widespread.
In every whisper of the wind, he’s near,
A reminder that his essence lingers here.
Though death has claimed his earthly frame,
In every soul, his fire remains aflame.