Now I'll record my secret vision, impossible sight of the face of God:
It was no dream,
I lay broad waking on a fabulous couch in Harlemhaving masturbated for no love, and read half naked an open book of Blake on my
Lo & behold!
I was thoughtless and turned a page and gazed on the living Sun-flowerand heard a voice, it was Blake's, reciting in earthen measure:the voice rose out of the page to my secret ear never heard before-I lifted my eyes to the window, red walls of buildings flashed outside, endless sky sad Eternitysunlight gazing on the world, apartments of Harlem standing in the universe—each brick and cornice stained with intelligence like a vast living face—the great brain unfolding and brooding in wilderness!—Now speaking aloud with Blake's voice—Love! thou patient presence & bone of the body!
Father! thy careful watching and waiting over my soul!
My son!
My son! the endless ages have remembered me!
My son!
My son! Time howled in anguish in my ear!
My son!
My son! my father wept and held me in his dead arms.
