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Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

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
Doors
Lest
Cherish
Innocence
Pity
Drive
Angel
Door

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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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If a thing loves, it is infinite.
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And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen?
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Nothing can be more contemptible than to suppose Public Records to be true.
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He who has few things to desire cannot have many to fear.
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The pride of the peacock is the glory of God. The lust of the goat is the bounty of God. The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God. The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
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To see a world in a grain of sand And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour.
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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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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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Although wine when it is read somewhat lacks the savour of wine when it is drunk, wine remains a very pleasant thing both to read about and to chat about.
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Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.
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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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The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
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Truth can never be told so as to be understood and not be believed.
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May God us keep From Single vision and Newton's sleep.
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O why was I born with a different face? Why was I not born like the rest of my race?
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Opposition is true friendship.
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How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? How can a child, when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring?
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More! More! is the cry of a mistaken soul.
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