Quote

Poetry fettered, fetters the human race. Nations are destroyed or flourish in proportion as their poetry, painting, and music are destroyed or flourish.

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
Destroyed
Poetry
Painting
Race
Fettered
Nations
Fetters
Music
Flourishing
Human
Flourish
Humans
Proportion

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Mercy, pity, and peace, Are the world's release.
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Ages are All Equal. / But Genius is Always Above The Age.
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How sweet I roamed from field to field, And tasted all the summer's pride, Till I the prince of love beheld, Who in the sunny beams did glide!
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He who kisses joy as it flies by will live in eternity's sunrise.
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As we are, so we see.
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Although wine when it is read somewhat lacks the savour of wine when it is drunk, wine remains a very pleasant thing both to read about and to chat about.
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Joys impregnate. Sorrows bring forth.
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All the destruction in Christian Europe has arisen from deism, which is natural religion.
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Those who enter the gates of heaven are not beings who have no passions or who have curbed the passions, but those who have cultivated an understanding of them.
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Dip him in the river who loves water.
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Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments let us taste Thy morn and evening breath scatter thy pearls Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.
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As a man is, so he sees. As the eye is formed, such are its powers.
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The voice of honest indignation is the voice of God.
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Works of Art can only be produc'd in Perfection where the Man is either in Affluence or is Above the Care of it.
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Little fly, thy summer's play My thoughtless hand has brushed away. Am not I a fly like thee? Or art not thou a man like me? For I dance and drink and sing, Till some blind hand shall brush my wing!
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My Brother starv'd between two Walls,His Children's Cry my Soul appalls
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Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share?
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And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen?
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The Woman that does not love your Frowns Will never embrace your smiles.
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Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet When I my grave have made Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie as cold as clay. True love doth pass away!
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