A Poison Tree (William Blake)

Yeah, yeah, this poem, too, rhymes. Okay, so maybe I don't dislike rhyme. Or I do, rather, when it is poorly done, which so easily happens. William Blake is a talented guy. He write in rhyme. AABB. He writes pretty even lines too. Neat-o.

And not only that, he writes a poem that seems to summarize human relations. You can be angry with a friend, but it doesn't matter. You're friends. You talk it out. You're angry with your enemy, and because they are your enemy you keep hold of your anger until it grows into hatred and at that point you're both destroyed.

In the poem, all it says is that the friend is "outstretched", but N also has destroyed himself. He has spent all his hours growing this poison tree, and at the end all he has done is lay low the enemy and that brings a smile to his face since he is "glad", but what is next step, I wonder. He has spent days and nights, days and nights perfecting this poison tree. And to what purpose? But, that I suppose, is the point. There is no purpose.