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The crow wished everything was black, the Owl, that everything was white.

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
White
Black
Everything
Owl
Crow
Wished
Bird
Animal

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I will not cease from mental fight Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand.
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Christ's crucifix shall be made an excuse for executing criminals.
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Little fly, thy summer's play My thoughtless hand has brushed away. Am not I a fly like thee? Or art not thou a man like me? For I dance and drink and sing, Till some blind hand shall brush my wing!
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Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.
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To create a little flower is the labour of ages.
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All pictures that's painted with sense and with thought / Are painted by madmen as sure as a groat / For the greater the fool in the pencil more blest, / And when they are drunk they always paint best.
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When nations grow old the Arts grow cold And commerce settles on every tree
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What is grand is necessarily obscure to weak men. That which can be made explicit to the idiot is not worth my care.
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Mere enthusiasm is the all in all.
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In every cry of every man, In every infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.
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For everything exists and not one sigh nor smile nor tear, one hair nor particle of dust, not one can pass away.
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Expect poison from the standing water.
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Does the Eagle know what is in the pit Or wilt thou go ask the Mole? Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod, Or Love in a golden bowl?
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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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How can a bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing?
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Painters are noted for being dissipated and wild.
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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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O why was I born with a different face? Why was I not born like the rest of my race?
William Blake
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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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Then the Parson might preach, & drink, & sing, And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church, Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.
William Blake