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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.
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
Things
Time
Swiftest
Swiftness
Torment
Mercy
Eternity
Eternal
Without
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He who has suffered you to impose on him knows you.
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Better to shun the bait than struggle in the snare.
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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?
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Art degraded, Imagination denied.
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But when he has done this, let him not say that he knows better than his master, for he only holds a candle in sunshine.
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The ruins of time build mansions in eternity.
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A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.
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Father, O father! what do we here In this land of unbelief and fear?
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Listen to the fool's reproach! It is a kingly title!
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This life's dim windows of the soul Distorts the heavens from pole to pole And leads you to believe a lie When you see with, not through, the eye.
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I cry, Love! Love! Love! happy happy Love! free as the mountain wind!
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Energy is eternal delight.
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The countless gold of a merry heart, The rubies and pearls of a loving eye, The indolent never can bring to the mart, Nor the secret hoard up in his treasury.
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Prudence is a rich, ugly, old maid courted by incapacity.
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I was in a Printing-house in Hell, and saw the method in which knowledge is transmitted from generation to generation.
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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.
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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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Some say that happiness is not good for mortals, & they ought to be answered that sorrow is not fit for immortals & is utterly useless to any one a blight never does good to a tree, & if a blight kill not a tree but it still bear fruit, let none say that the fruit was in consequence of the blight.
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Nature in darkness groans and men are bound to sullen contemplation in the night: restless they turn on beds of sorrow in their inmost brain feeling the crushing wheels, they rise, they write the bitter words of stern philosophy and knead the bread of knowledge with tears and groans.
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If you have formed a circle to go into,Go into it yourself and see how you would do.
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