It used to drive me mad, the way we sang Jerusalem. Cutting out the best part, I mean. Avoiding mention of the “Dark Satanic Mills,” and skipping on down, past the bit about the Chariot of Fire, all the way to the last line, about England’s green, pleasant land. What would Blake think? The silver-tongued dissident, who decried socioeconomic inequality even as he actively commodified his own artwork, who wrote devout, religious tracts attacking religion, whose radical anti-slavery poetry still contains a distinct black/white hierarchy, this man of paradox and contradiction, how would he feel about the weight of our vulgar, American edits on his text? Would he weep, or rage, or quietly curse? Would he laugh at the twisted intimations of his own immortality?