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The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.

William Blake

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William Blake
Age: 69 †
Born: 1757
Born: November 28
Died: 1827
Died: August 12
Collector
Engraver
Graphic Artist
Illustrator
Lithographer
Painter
Philosopher
Poet
Printer
Theologian
London
England
W. Blake
Uil'iam Bleik
Blake
Men
Spider
Nests
Spiders
Educational
Bird
Friendship
Friends
Happiness
Nest

More quotes by William Blake

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The Britons (say historians) were naked, civilized men, learned, studious, abstruse in thought and contemplation naked, simple, plain in their acts and manners wiser than after ages.
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If Christianity was morality, Socrates would be the Saviour.
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He who replies to words of doubt doth put the light of knowledge out.
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Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty !
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The Woman that does not love your Frowns Will never embrace your smiles.
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A good local pub has much in common with a church, except that a pub is warmer, and there's more conversation.
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Pay attention to minute particulars. Take care of the little ones. Generalization and abstraction are the plea of the hypocrite, scoundrel, and knave.
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A musician, an artist, an architect: the man or woman who is not one of these is not a Christian.
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Silent as despairing love, and strong as jealousy.
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The world of imagination is the world of eternity.
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Error is created truth is eternal.
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We are led to believe a lie When we see not through the eye.
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The ruins of time build mansions in eternity.
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Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.
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A dog starv'd at the master's gate Predicts the ruin of the State. A horse misus'd upon the road Calls to heaven for human blood. Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear, A skylark wounded on the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing.
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Imitation is criticism.
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The fox condemns the trap, not himself.
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The lamb misused breeds public strife And yet forgives the butcher's knife.
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Think not thou canst sigh a sigh And thy maker is not by Think not thou canst weep a tear And thy maker is not near.
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My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By love are driv'n away And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.
William Blake