A Poison Tree

I find the sentiments of this poem by William Blake rather disquieting, like the modern films where the 'hero' takes disproportionate revenge on the baddies.  Like the poem the films culminate in the death of the foe. In the movies, we're expected to cheer but Blake doesn't signal how we should feel.



I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end. 
I was angry with my foe: 
I told it not, my wrath did grow. 

And I waterd it in fears, 
Night & morning with my tears: 
And I sunned it with smiles, 
And with soft deceitful wiles. 

And it grew both day and night. 
Till it bore an apple bright. 
And my foe beheld it shine, 
And he knew that it was mine. 

And into my garden stole, 
When the night had veil'd the pole; 
In the morning glad I see; 
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.


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