The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of

“The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way... But to the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself.” Thus spoke William Blake, prophet of vision, painter of eternity, and seer of the divine within the common. In these words, he reveals a truth as ancient as breath—that the world we see is not merely before our eyes, but within our souls. Each man perceives not the same world, but the reflection of his own spirit. The dull see obstruction where the awakened see wonder. The cynic sees matter where the poet sees meaning. And so Blake, whose heart burned with sacred fire, declares that nature is imagination itself—the living mirror through which the Infinite speaks to those who have the courage to see.

From the beginning of time, humanity has stood before creation in awe or blindness. Some, like the ancient Hebrews, beheld the burning bush and heard the voice of God; others would have seen only dry thorns aflame. The Egyptian priests, gazing upon the Nile’s flood, saw not mere water but the pulse of divine order; yet to the laborer knee-deep in mud, it was only toil. Thus has it ever been: the difference between vision and vacancy lies not in the object but in the imagination of the beholder. Blake, who walked the gray streets of London yet saw angels perched upon chimneys, teaches us that the divine hides within the ordinary, awaiting the eyes that can pierce its veil.

For Blake, imagination was not fantasy—it was revelation. He believed that man’s inward sight is the true instrument of perception. Without it, the world is flat, colorless, and dead. With it, every leaf becomes a universe, every breeze a whisper of eternity. To see nature rightly is to see spirit made visible. The tree that stands in the meadow is not mere wood and leaf—it is a living emblem of patience, rootedness, and renewal. Its branches rise toward heaven as prayers; its roots drink from the unseen depths. But those without imagination see only lumber, shadow, or inconvenience. And so Blake weeps—not for the blindness of the eyes, but for the blindness of the soul.

History is rich with those who saw the world as Blake did—who looked upon the natural world and perceived divinity. Consider St. Francis of Assisi, who called the sun his brother and the moon his sister, who preached to the birds and wept with joy for the wind. His vision was not madness but imagination sanctified, a seeing that transcended the surface. Or recall Isaac Newton, who gazed at an apple’s fall and saw in that simple act the laws that govern the stars. Both the saint and the scientist shared the same sacred faculty: the imaginative eye, the ability to see the invisible through the visible.

Yet most of mankind wanders blind beneath the stars. The modern heart, weary and distracted, measures trees by their market value and rivers by their utility. To such eyes, the world is not holy but useful, not living but mechanical. Blake’s lament still echoes through the centuries: man has forgotten how to see. We have traded wonder for control, reverence for analysis, poetry for practicality. The tree that once stirred tears of joy now becomes an obstacle to a new road, a statistic in a logging report. The imagination, that bridge between man and mystery, has been cast aside in the name of progress.

O children of the future, awaken your imagination, for through it alone shall you rediscover your soul! Look upon the world not as a collection of things, but as a living conversation between creation and the Creator. When you walk beneath the trees, do not pass them by as shadows—but pause, listen, and behold. See how their silence speaks. Hear the heartbeat of the earth beneath your feet. For to the eyes of the man of imagination, every stone is a poem, every breeze a messenger, every dawn a resurrection.

Let this be your teaching: the quality of your vision determines the quality of your life. Cultivate the inner eye that sees holiness in the humble, meaning in the mundane, and beauty in all that breathes. Read not only with the mind but with the spirit; look not only outward but inward. For nature and imagination are one, and the world becomes what you dare to perceive it to be. Walk, then, as a seer among sleepers. Let every green thing move you to joy, and in your seeing, awaken others to see. For the tree that blocks one path may yet open the way to heaven for another.