Blind poetry tasting

I think I'm pretty secure in the fact that I read the things I read, poetry and prose, because I enjoy them and not because they are works that you 'should' read. I would hate to become that sort of person, who spouts the names of authors to impress other people rather than because I have a genuine pleasure in reading their works.
It is always nice to have this reaffirmed, though, as it was yesterday. I was idly opening the Penguin Book of English verse at random and reading the odd poem. This book is arranged chronologically, rather than in chunks of single poets, a method I really like. The other day there was a discussion in my office about the Mona Lisa and someone was saying what a disappointment it was; this is not a surprising view, it is such a familiar image that when some people are stood before the smalllish painting I think they often feel let down, as they expected something more dramatic. When I went to see the painting in the Louvre, though, I didn't race to it but walked through the galleries looking at the paintings arranged chronologically and saw the paintings that came before the Mona Lisa. When we eventually arrived at Da Vinci's painting I found it a quite breathtaking leap forward compared to other works of the time, and really appreciated the genius behind it.
This poetry book should have the same effect. Instead of treating poets in isolation or giving the impression that a poet produced all their work silmultaneously rather than developing over decades you can see the works in their contemporary context, appreciate the development of poetry and see where there have been leaps forward, however familiar the work.
Anyway, I idly opened the page and read a little poem. I had no idea who it was by, but was struck by its simplicity and beauty. I really enjoyed reading it and wondered who it could be by. I then turned back through a few pages to find the creator.
It was written by William Blake, a poet whom I would list among my favourites (although, as this shows, not due to a comprehensive knowledge of his work!). This is comforting, as it shows that I do not necessarily appreciate a poem just because it is by a poet whom one should appreciate, one of the greats. I really do enjoy his work for its own sake. Although I failed the real purpose of a blind tasting, as I couldn't name the particular vineyard behind the glass of wine, I at least have the comfort of knowing that I am not affected by the label when deciding what I enjoy. I will be doing more dipping into this book for blind tasting over the next few weeks; I am more likely to find gems than if I look through the index I feel.
On Wuthering Expectations there has been an interesting discussion recently about the difference between appreciationism and deeper criticism. This is an appreciationist post - here is the poem in question from Songs of Experience. I loved it and may think more deeply about it at some point in the future but am too tired to now I'm afraid, so I am just going to share it as something beautiful.

A POISON TREE

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 watered it in fear.

Night and 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 veiled the pole;

In the morning, glad, I see;

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.