Quote

To Chloe's breast young Cupid slily stole, But he crept in at Myra's pocket-hole.

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
Young
Chloe
Life
Stole
Pocket
Breast
Hole
Breasts
Pockets
Crept
Holes
Cupid

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Every man who is not an artist is a traitor to his own nature.
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Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night.
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If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.
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Innate ideas are in every man, born with him they are truly himself. The man who says that we have no innate ideas must be a fool and knave, having no conscience or innate science.
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How sweet I roamed from field to field, And tasted all the summer's pride, Till I the prince of love beheld, Who in the sunny beams did glide!
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All wholesome food is caught without a net or trap.
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The ancient Poets animated all sensible objects with Gods or Geniuses, calling them by the names and adorning them with the properties of woods, rivers, mountains, lakes, cities, nations, and whatever their enlarged & numerous senses could perceive.
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The glory of Christianity is to conquer by forgiveness.
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What seems to be, is, to those to whom it seems to be, and is productive of the most dreadful consequences to those to whom it seems to be, even of torments, despair, eternal death.
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What is grand is necessarily obscure to weak men. That which can be made explicit to the idiot is not worth my care.
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Without Unceasing Practice nothing can be done. Practice is Art. If you leave off you are lost.
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How can a bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing?
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Wisdom is sold in a desolate marketplace where none can come to buy.
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Struggling in my father's hands, Striving against my swaddling bands, Bound and weary, I thought best To sulk upon my mother's breast.
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The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:While the Lily white shall in love delight,Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.
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To create a little flower is the labour of ages.
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