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But to go to school in a summer morn, O! It drives all joy away Under a cruel eye outworn, The little ones spend the day In sighing and dismay.
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
Away
Dismay
School
Drives
Littles
Cruel
Little
Summer
Spend
Ones
Outworn
Joy
Sighing
Eye
Morn
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When Sir Joshua Reynolds died All Nature was degraded The King dropped a tear in the Queen's ear, And all his pictures faded.
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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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Art is the tree of life. Science is the tree of death.
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A good local pub has much in common with a church, except that a pub is warmer, and there's more conversation.
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My Brother starv'd between two Walls,His Children's Cry my Soul appalls
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The moon, like a flower in heaven's high bower, with silent delight sits and smiles on the night.
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Expect poison from the standing water.
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If you have form'd a circle to go into, Go into it yourself, and see how you would do. They said this mystery never shall cease: The priest promotes war, and the soldier peace.
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When the sun rises, do you not see a round disc of fire somewhat like a guinea? O no, no, I see an innumerable company of the heavenly host crying Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord God Almighty.
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To the eyes of a miser a guinea is more beautiful than the sun, and a bag worn with the use of money has more beautiful proportions than a vine filled with grapes.
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If you trap the moment before it's ripe, The tears of repentence you'll certainly wipe But if once you let the ripe moment go You can never wipe off the tears of woe.
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Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
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The fox condemns the trap, not himself.
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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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God forbid that Truth should be confined to Mathematical Demonstration!
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Grown old in love from seven till seven times seven,I oft have wished for Hell for ease from Heaven.
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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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What is now proved was once only imagined.
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Without contraries there is no progression.
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Christianity is art and not money. Money is its curse.
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