William Blake / A letter to Thomas Butts (Aug, 1803)

O why was I born with a different face?
Why was I not born like the rest of my race?
When I look, each one starts! when I speak, I offend;
Then I am silent & passive & lose every Friend.

Then my verse I dishonour, My pictures despise,
My person degrade & my temper chastise;
And the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame;
All my talents I bury, and dead is my Fame.

I am either too low or too highly prizd;
When Elate I am Envy’d, When Meek I’m despised