I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen;
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And ‘Thou shalt not’ writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.

—William Blake, from Songs of Experience

*Not calculated to nourish the moral imagination but rather to starve it (though I am not familiar enough with Blake to say this certainly, but I do not think I’m wrong, and I hope to be familiar with him better soon; and wicked antinomians may think otherwise, perhaps being wittingly or unwittingly opposed to the ordering of our loves by anything without a hint of frivolity), I find it interesting to see how he goes about it.