But most thro'midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlot's curse Blasts the newborn infant's tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse               William Blake

and my heart bid me to soften . . . as my hate became my love and my love became my hate and those two passions were one and I saw the crest of the wave beneath my feet - I saw in my hands the blood of birth and the blood of death and as I reached out my hands to either side I balanced well on the crest of that wave and saw for miles and miles and miles, and saw the hand of Godde tell me that all was well, that all was sublime and that all was perfect. That my rage was perfect.