The rational and materialistic mind,
For Blake, is embedded in a muscled body,
A perfect machine such men will never construct.
Newton leans over to finger a scroll he's lined
With a triangle, a mental commodity
From which any semblance of nature has been struck.
His left hand holds calipers, measuring the line
His right forefinger traces; it's a god's design.
Men are the only gods he knows, because they think,
And thinking, as we all know, is what gods create.
He sits on algae-covered rock, ignores the stink.
Engrossed, he cannot remember when he last ate.
There's so much more to understand than gravity;
The apple fallen long ago eaten at tea.
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