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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

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
Time
Pages
Love
Crime
Sweet
Age
Reading
Future
Indignant
Thought
Page
Children
Former

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Reason, or the ratio of all we have already known, is not the same that it shall be when we know more.
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The fox condemns the trap, not himself.
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When the voices of children are heard on the greenAnd laughing is heard on the hill,My heart is at rest within my breastAnd everything else is still.
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He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please.
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It is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted.
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Why a tender curb upon the youthful burning boy? Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire?
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Can I see another's woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, And not seek for kind relief? Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow filled? Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be!
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I asked a thief to steal me a peach: He turned up his eyes. I asked a lithe lady to lie her down: Holy and meek, she cries. As soon as I went An angel came. He winked at the thief And smiled at the dame- And without one word spoke Had a peach from the tree, And 'twixt earnest and joke Enjoyed the lady.
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My mother groaned, my father wept, into the dangerous world I leapt.
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As a man is, so he sees.
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O thou who passest through our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer, Oft pitchest here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
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I am more famed in Heaven for my works than I could well conceive. In my brain are studies & chambers filled with books & pictures of old, which I wrote and painted in ages of Eternity before my mortal life and whose works are the delight & study of Archangels. Why, then, should I be anxious about the riches or fame of mortality?
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Energy is eternal delight.
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The mocker of Art is the mocker of Jesus.
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To my eye Rubens' colouring is most contemptible. His shadows are a filthy brown somewhat the colour of excrement.
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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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Gratitude, in itself, is heaven.
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Demonstration, similitude & harmony are objects of reasoning. Invention, identity & melody are objects of intuition.
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Wisdom is sold in a desolate marketplace where none can come to buy.
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Active Evil is better than Passive Good.
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