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Man has no Body distinct from his Soul for that called Body is a portion of Soul discerned by the five Senses, the chief inlets of Soul in this age.

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
Body
Portions
Soul
Chief
Men
Chiefs
Life
Spirituality
Senses
Called
Discerned
Five
Distinct
Age
Portion

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When a Man has Married a WifeHe finds out whetherHer Knees & elbows are onlyglued together.
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Demonstration, similitude & harmony are objects of reasoning. Invention, identity & melody are objects of intuition.
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And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds and binding with briars my joys and desires. (from 'The Garden of Love')
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For the Eye altering alters all The Senses roll themselves in fear And the flat Earth becomes a Ball.
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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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If you have formed a circle to go into,Go into it yourself and see how you would do.
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When the voices of children are heard on the greenAnd laughing is heard on the hill,My heart is at rest within my breastAnd everything else is still.
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Invention depends altogether upon execution or organization as that is right or wrong so is the invention perfect or imperfect.
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Tools were made and born were hands, Every farmer understands.
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He who shall teach the child to doubtThe rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
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I am going to that country which I have all my life wished to see.
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The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
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God is the poetic genius in each of us.
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The eye sees more than the heart knows.
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He who pretends to be either painter or engraver without being a master of drawing is an imposter.
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Mere enthusiasm is the all in all.
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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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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.
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When the doors of perception are cleansed, men will see things as they truly are, infinite.
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O thou who passest through our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer, Oft pitchest here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
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