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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O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine there hast thou build thy dark, Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.
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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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The inquiry in England is not whether a man has talents and genius, but whether he is passive and polite and a virtuous ass and obedient to noblemen's opinions in art and science. If he is, he is a good man. If not, he must be starved.
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For the Eye altering alters all The Senses roll themselves in fear And the flat Earth becomes a Ball.
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The true method of knowledge is experiment.
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Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves the feet of angels bright unseen they pour blessing, and joy without ceasing, on each bud and blossom, and each sleeping bosom.
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Energy is the only life, and is from the body and reason is the bound or outward circumference of energy. Energy is eternal delight.
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Both read the Bible day and night, but thou read black where I read white.
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In your own bosom you bear your heaven and earth, And all you behold, though it appears without, It is within, in your imagination, Of which this world of mortality is but a shadow.
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My Brother starv'd between two Walls,His Children's Cry my Soul appalls
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The cut worm forgives the plow.
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Lives in eternity's sun rise.
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I thought Love lived in the hot sunshine, But O, he lives in the moony light! I thought to find Love in the heat of day, But sweet Love is the comforter of night.
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Prisons are built with stones of Law. Brothels with the bricks of religion.
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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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He who sees the Infinite in all things sees God.
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Those who enter the gates of heaven are not beings who have no passions or who have curbed the passions, but those who have cultivated an understanding of them.
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O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruit and flowers.
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For where'er the sun does shine, And where'er the rain does fall, Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appall.
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