William Blake

O Dagworth, France is sick! the very sky,
Tho’ sunshine light it, seems to me as pale
As the pale fainting man on his death-bed,
Whose face is shewn by light of sickly taper!
It makes me sad and sick at very heart,
Thousands must fall to-day!

The lineaments of Gratified Desire.

Pale is the morning cloud in his visage

instead of words harsh hissings

As I was walking among the fires of hell, delighted with the enjoyments of Genius; which to Angels look like torment and insanity.