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I have no name: I am but two days old. What shall I call thee? I happy am, Joy is my name. Sweet joy befall thee!

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
Name
Shall
Days
Names
Befall
Call
Thee
Happiness
Sweet
Happy
Baby
Two
Joy

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Thinking as I do that the Creator of this world is a very cruel being, and being a worshipper of Christ, I cannot help saying: ''the Son, O how unlike the Father!'' First God Almighty comes with a thump on the head. Then Jesus Christ comes with a balm to heal it.
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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.
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Desperate remorse swallows the present in a quenchless rage.
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I am under the direction of messengers from Heaven daily and nightly.
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The cut worm forgives the plow.
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He loves to sit and hear me sing, Then, laughing, sports and plays with me Then stretches out my golden wing, And mocks my loss of liberty.
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The fox provides for himself, but God provides for the lion.
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He who kisses joy as it flies by will live in eternity's sunrise.
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The Man who pretends to be a modest enquirer into the truth of a self-evident thing is a Knave.
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I have conversed with the spiritual Sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill
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Harmony of colouring is destructive of art? it is like the smile of a fool.
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Work up imagination to the state of vision.
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When the stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
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As we are, so we see.
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Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
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Want of money and the distress of a thief can never be alleged as the cause of his thieving, for many honest people endure greater hardships with fortitude. We must therefore seek the cause elsewhere than in want of money, for that is the miser's passion, not the thief s.
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The look of love alarms Because 'tis filled with fire But the look of soft deceit Shall win the lover's hire.
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If a thing loves, it is infinite.
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