Blake's Macbeth
Dagger, Dagger, burning bright,
Sensible to naught but sight,
Handle toward my hand; I try
To clutch thee, but can’t do so. Why?
Fatal vision, art thou not
Sensible to being caught
In the hand? or art thou but
Proof I’m going off my nut?
What the dudgeon? What the blade?
What the gouts of blood, new-made?
What the heck? I see thee still.
Thou marshall’st me the way I will.
Dagger, Dagger, burning bright,
Sensible to naught but sight,
Why not, at bloody business time,
Dare frame the servants for my crime?
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