They call you the Greek, Dominico, but Spain caught you.
They call you the Greek, but what Greek ever cast purple shadows or lit purple fires!
They call you the Greek, but you suffered in your search for God.
Your half-divine Christ bearing his cross was but a way-station on the road—
God was always just beyond, out of reach.
God was a dark shade—the inquisition might have been his instrument.
God was a star-blue flame—his saints died for him with joy.
And even the little men you painted, Dominico,
The little Count of This and Prince of That,
Even they had felt the fire—
It burned purple behind their eyes.

Dark and bright—O bright and dark, O cruel and tender,
Have you met William Blake in some lonely walk of Paradise?
And have you found God?