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When the doors of perception are cleansed, men will see things as they truly are, infinite.

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
Doors
Vision
Wisdom
Things
Men
Cleansed
Perception
Infinite
Truly

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But if at church they would give some ale. And a pleasant fire our souls to regale. We'd sing and we'd pray all the live long day, Nor ever once from the church to stray.
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And is he honest who resists his genius or conscience only for the sake of present ease or gratification
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Pity would be no more, If we did not make somebody poor. Mercy no more could be, If all were happy as we.
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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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Does a firm persuasion that a thing is so, make it so?
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Every harlot was a virgin once.
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Works of Art can only be produc'd in Perfection where the Man is either in Affluence or is Above the Care of it.
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If the Sun and Moon should ever doubt, they'd immediately go out.
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The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.
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The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels and God, and at liberty when of Devils and Hell, is because he was a true poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it.
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Where others see but the dawn coming over the hill, I see the soul of God shouting for joy.
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The voice of honest indignation is the voice of God.
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Poetry fettered fetters the human race.
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It is the greatest of crimes to depress true art and science.
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Art can never exist without naked beauty displayed.
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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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God is the poetic genius in each of us.
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A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage.
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Why stand we here trembling around, calling on God for help, and not ourselves, in whom God dwells?
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In every cry of every man, In every infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.
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