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Where mercy, love, and pity dwell, there God is dwelling too.

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
Dwell
Pity
Mercy
House
Love
Dwelling

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Such, such were the joys When we all, girls and boys, In our youth time were seen On the Echoing Green.
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God forbid that Truth should be confined to Mathematical Demonstration!
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Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks: He withers all in silence, and his hand Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.
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Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?
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God is the poetic genius in each of us.
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Without contraries is no progression. Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate, are necessary to human existence.
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In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown, and in between, there are doors.
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All the destruction in Christian Europe has arisen from deism, which is natural religion.
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The ancient Poets animated all sensible objects with Gods or Geniuses, calling them by the names and adorning them with the properties of woods, rivers, mountains, lakes, cities, nations, and whatever their enlarged & numerous senses could perceive.
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What has reasoning to do with painting?
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Embraces are comminglings from the head even to the feet, And not a pompous high priest entering by a secret place.
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I was in a Printing-house in Hell, and saw the method in which knowledge is transmitted from generation to generation.
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Drive your cart and plow over the bones of the dead.
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Energy is an eternal delight.
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For I dance And drink and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing. If thought is life And strength and breath And the want Of thought is death Then am I A happy fly If I live Or if I die
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Poetry fettered, fetters the human race. Nations are destroyed or flourish in proportion as their poetry, painting, and music are destroyed or flourish.
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You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.
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In your own bosom you bear your heaven and earth, And all you behold, though it appears without, It is within, in your imagination, Of which this world of mortality is but a shadow.
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I give you the end of a golden string, Only wind it into a ball, It will lead you in at Heaven's gate Built in Jerusalem's wall.
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