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The hours of folly are measured by the clock but of wisdom, no clock can measure.

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
Measure
Wisdom
Hours
Artist
Time
Measured
Folly
Clock

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I will not cease from mental fight Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand.
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The cut worm forgives the plow.
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Thy friendship oft has made my heart to ache: do be my enemy for friendship's sake.
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I'm sure this Jesus will not do Either for Englishman or Jew.
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The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laugh'd And all the hills echoed
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Come live, and be merry, and join with me, To sing the sweet chorus of 'Ha ha he!
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The thankful receiver bears a plentiful harvest.
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The fields from Islington to Marybone, To Primrose Hill and Saint John's Wood, Were builded over with pillars of gold And there Jerusalem's pillars stood.
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England! awake! awake! awake! Jerusalem thy sister calls! Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death And close her from thy ancient walls?
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You've always had the power right there in your shoes, you just had to learn it for yourself.
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Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you.
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The eye sees more than the heart knows.
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Let every Christian, as much as in him lies, engage himself openly and publicly, before all the World, in some mental pursuit for the Building up of Jerusalem.
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Imitation is criticism.
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What has reasoning to do with painting?
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Without minute neatness of execution, the sublime cannot exist! Grandeur of ideas is founded on precision of ideas.
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But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
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He who loves his enemies betrays his friends this surely is not what Jesus meant.
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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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To my eye Rubens' colouring is most contemptible. His shadows are a filthy brown somewhat the colour of excrement.
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