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For all eternity, I forgive you and you forgive me.

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
Forgive
Forgiving
Eternity

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On no other ground Can I sow my seed Without tearing up Some stinking weed.
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Imitation is criticism.
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The lamb misused breeds public strife And yet forgives the butcher's knife.
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I am in you and you in me, mutual in divine love.
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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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What seems to be, is, to those to whom it seems to be, and is productive of the most dreadful consequences to those to whom it seems to be, even of torments, despair, eternal death.
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Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share?
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The countless gold of a merry heart, The rubies and pearls of a loving eye, The indolent never can bring to the mart, Nor the secret hoard up in his treasury.
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Acts themselves alone are history, and these are neither the exclusive property of Hume, Gibbon nor Voltaire, Echard, Rapin, Plutarch, nor Herodotus. Tell me the Acts, O historian, and leave me to reason upon them as I please away with your reasoning and your rubbish. All that is not action is not worth reading.
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Ah, sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun, Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller's journey is done Where the youth pined away with desire And the pale virgin shrouded in snow Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my sunflower wishes to go.
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Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?
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Death is terrible, tho' borne on angels' wings!
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They who forgive most shall be most forgiven.
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Nature in darkness groans and men are bound to sullen contemplation in the night: restless they turn on beds of sorrow in their inmost brain feeling the crushing wheels, they rise, they write the bitter words of stern philosophy and knead the bread of knowledge with tears and groans.
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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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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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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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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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As a man is, so he sees. As the eye is formed, such are its powers.
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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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