Morning Star

I noticed today that my old William Blake anthology naturally falls open to this poem:

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To the Accuser Who is the God of this World

Truly, My Satan, thou art but a Dunce,
And dost not know the Garment from the Man
Every Harlot was a Virgin once,
Nor can'st thou ever change Kate into Nan.

Tho' thou art Worship'd by the Names Divine
Of Jesus & Jehovah, thou art still
The Son of Morn in weary Night's decline,
the lost Traveller's Dream under the Hill.

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That's a fine one, indeed. Hilarious and touching, even.