Quote

The Sick Rose O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

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
Life
Joy
Worms
Secret
Storm
Dark
Invisible
Found
Destroy
Night
Thou
Howling
Art
Bed
Crimson
Doe
Rose
Worm
Love
Sick
Flies

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He who shall teach the child to doubtThe rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
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Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments let us taste Thy morn and evening breath scatter thy pearls Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.
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Christ's crucifix shall be made an excuse for executing criminals.
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To the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself.
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I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow.
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Time is the mercy of Eternity without Time's swiftness Which is the swiftest of all things, all were eternal torment.
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Degrade first the Arts if you'd Mankind Degrade. Hire Idiots to Paint with cold light & hot shade: Give high Price for the worst, leave the best in disgrace, And with Labours of Ignorance fill every place.
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Poetry fettered fetters the human race.
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Praises reap not! Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not!
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The eye altering, alters all.
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You throw the sand against the wind and the wind blows it back again.
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England! awake! awake! awake! Jerusalem thy sister calls! Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death And close her from thy ancient walls?
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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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One thought fills immensity.
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The hours of folly are measured by the clock but of wisdom, no clock can measure.
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My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By love are driv'n away And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.
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Nothing can be more contemptible than to suppose Public Records to be true.
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If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thru chinks of his cavern.
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