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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
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Thee
Happiness
Sweet
Happy
Baby
Two
Joy
More quotes by William Blake
If the Sun and Moon should ever doubt, they'd immediately go out.
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Each man must create his own system or else he is a slave to another mans
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Those who restrain their desires, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.
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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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Listen to the fool's reproach! It is a kingly title!
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Man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.
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O God, protect me from my friends, that they have not power over me. Thou hast giv'n me power to protect myself from thy bitterest enemies.
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O white-robed Angel, guide my timorous hand to write as on a lofty rock with iron pen the words of truth, that all who pass may read.
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The human mind cannot go beyond the gift of God, the Holy Ghost. To suppose that art can go beyond the finest specimens of art that are now in the world is not knowing what art is it is being blind to the gifts of the spirit.
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One Power alone makes a Poet: Imagination. The Divine Vision.
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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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A musician, an artist, an architect: the man or woman who is not one of these is not a Christian.
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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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He who would do good to another must do it in minute particulars.
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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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How can a bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing?
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The pure soul shall mount on native wings, . . . and cut a path into the heaven of glory.
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There is a smile of love, And there is a smile of deceit, And there is a smile of smiles In which these two smiles meet.
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Children of the future age Reading this indignant page Know that in a former time Love, sweet love, was thought a crime
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