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When the stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make 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
Stars
Watered
Heaven
Lamb
Work
Spears
Made
Lambs
Make
Threw
Thee
Smile
Tears
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Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,Dreaming o'er the joys of night.Sleep, sleep: in thy sleepLittle sorrows sit and weep.
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Harmony of colouring is destructive of art? it is like the smile of a fool.
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Silent as despairing love, and strong as jealousy.
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He who shall teach the child to doubtThe rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
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Enlightenment means taking full responsibility for your life.
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Nothing can be more contemptible than to suppose Public Records to be true.
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The lamb misused breeds public strife And yet forgives the butcher's knife.
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The Whole Business of Man is The Arts, & All Things Common.
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Life delights in life.
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The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.
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The difference between a bad artist and a good one is: the bad artist seems to copy a great deal the good one really does.
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Wisdom is sold in a desolate marketplace where none can come to buy.
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He who sees the Infinite in all things sees God.
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Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained and the restrainer or reason usurps its place & governs the unwilling. And being restrain'd it by degrees becomes passive till it is only the shadow of desire.
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Nothing is real beyond imaginative patterns men make of reality.
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To some people a tree is something so incredibly beautiful that it brings tears to the eyes. To others it is just a green thing that stands in the way.
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None but blockheads copy each other.
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Why stand we here trembling around, calling on God for help, and not ourselves, in whom God dwells?
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Thy friendship oft has made my heart to ache: do be my enemy for friendship's sake.
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Then my verse I dishonor, my pictures despise, my person degrade and my temper chastise and the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame and my talents I bury, and dead is my fame.
William Blake