REMEMBER WILLIAM BLAKE from your English literature course? Today I took photographs of Margaret’s little tiger, just three inches long from the tip of nose to tip of tail; and as I edited the images, Blake’s poem, “The Tiger,” (and Mrs. Honora Laney, my high school English teacher) came to mind. Blake was a religious man... a poet, painter, and printmaker who was disenchanted with the Church of England.

The Tyger
by William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire in thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art?
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand, and what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb, make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Below: My Niece Braithe Landry's tiger...